NOT  LIKE 
OTHER  GIRLS 


UN  MEMOEIAM. 
Isaac  Flagg      1843-1933 


NOT  LIKE 


OTHER  GIRLS 


A  NOVEL 


BY 

ROSA  NOUCHETTE  CAREY 

Author  of  "Uncle  Max,"  "Only  the  Govern®*0  "  Etc 


CHICAGO 
W.  B.  CONKEY  COMPANY 


76 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 


CHAPTER  L 

FIVE-O'CLOCK  TEA. 

Five-o'clock  tea  was  a  great  institution  in  Old- 
field. 

It  was  a  form  of  refreshment  to  which  the  female 
inhabitants  of  that  delightful  place  were  strongly 
addicted.  In  vain  did  Dr.  Weatherby,  the  great 
authority  in  all  that  concerned  the  health  of  the 
neighborhood,  lift  up  his  voice  against  the  mild 
feminine  dram-drinking  of  these  modern  days,  de- 
nouncing it  in  no  measured  terms:  the  ladies  of 
Oldfield  listened  incredulously,  and,  softly  quoting 
Cowper's  lines  as  to  the  "cup  that  cheers  and  not 
inebriates,"  still  presided  over  their  dainty  little 
tea-tables,  and  vied  with  one  another  in  the  beauty 
of  their  china  and  the  flavor  of  their  highly  scented 
Pekoe. 

In  spite  of  Dr.  Weatherby's  sneers  and  innuen- 
does, a  great  deal  of  valuable  time  was  spent  in  lin- 
gering in  one  or  another  of  the  pleasant  drawing- 
rooms  of  the  place.  As  the  magic  hour  approached, 
people  dropped  in  casually.  The  elder  ladies 
sipped  their  tea  and  gossiped  softly;  the  younger 
ones,  if  it  were  summer  time,  strolled  out  through 
the  open  windows  into  the  garden.  Most  of  the 
houses  had  tennis-grounds,  and  it  was  quite  an  un- 
derstood thing  that  a  game  should  be  played  before 
they  separated. 

With  some  few  exceptions,  the  inhabitants  of  Old- 
field  were  wealthy  people.  Handsome  houses 


*~ 


M3007S1 


A  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Standing  in  their  own  grounds  were  dotted  here  and 
there  among  the  lanes  and  country  roads.  Some  of 
the  big  houses  belonged  to  very  big  people  indeed; 
but  these  were  aristocrats  who  only  lived  in  their 
country  houses  a  few  months  in  the  year,  and  whose 
presence  added  more  to  the  dignity  than  to  the 
fiilarity  of  the  neighborhood. 

With  these  exceptions,  the  Oldfield  people  were 
highly  gregarious  and  hospitable;  in  spite  of  a  few 
peculiarities,  they  had  their  good  points;  a  great 
deal  of  gossip  prevailed,  but  it  was  in  the  main 
harmless  and  good-natured.  There  was  a  wonder- 
ful simplicity  of  dress,  too,  which  in  these  days 
might  be  termed  a  cardinal  virtue.  The  girls  wore 
their  fresh  cambrics  and  plain  straw  hats ;  no  one 
seemed  to  think  it  necessary  to  put  on  smart  cloth- 
ing when  they  wished  to  visit  their  friends.  People 
said  this  Arcadian  simplicity  was  just  as  studied; 
yievertheless,  it  showed  perfection  of  taste  and  a 
just  appreciation  of  things. 

The  house  that  was  considered  the  most  attrac- 
tive in  Oldfield,  and  where,  on  summer  afternoons, 
the  sound  of  youthful  voices  and  laughter  were  the 
loudest,  was  Glen  Cottage,  a  small  white  house  ad- 
joining the  long  village  street,  belonging  to  a  cer- 
tain Mrs.  Challoner,  who  lived  here  with  her  three 
daughters. 

This  may  be  accounted  strange  in  the  first  in- 
stance, since  the  Challoners  were  people  of  the  most 
limited  income — an  income  so  small  that  nothing 
but  the  most  modest  of  entertainments  could  be  fur- 
nished to  their  friends;  very  different  from  their 
neighbors  at  Longmead,  the  large  white  house  ad- 
joining, where  sumptuous  dinners  and  regular  even- 
ing parties  were  given  in  the  dark  days  when 
pleasures  were  few  and  tennis  impossible. 

People  said  it  was  very  good-natured  of  the 
Maynes;  but  then,  when  there  is  an  only  child  in 
the  case,  an  honest,  pleasure-loving,  gay  young  fel- 
low on  whom  his  parents  dote,  what  is  it  they  will 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  5 

not  do  to  please  their  own  flesh  and  blood?  and,  as 
young  Richard  Mayne — or  Dick,  as  he  was  always 
called — loved  all  such  festive  gatherings,  Mrs. 
Mayne  loved  them  too ;  and  her  husband  tried  to 
persuade  himself  that  his  tastes  lay  in  the  same 
direction,  only  reserving  certain  groans  for  private 
use,  that  Dick  could  not  be  happy  without  a  house 
full  of  young  people. 

But  no  such  entertainments  were  possible  at  Glen 
Cottage;  nevertheless,  the  youth  of  the  neighbor- 
hood flocked  eagerly  into  the  pleasant  drawing-room 
where  Mrs.  Challoner  sat  tranquilly  summer  and 
winter  to  welcome  her  friends,  or  betook  them- 
selves through  the  open  French  windows  into  the 
old-fashioned  garden,  in  which  mother  and  daughters 
took  such  pride. 

On  hot  afternoons  the  tea-table  was  spread  under 
an  acacia-tree,  low  wicker-chairs  were  brought  out, 
and  rugs  spread  on  the  lawn,  and  Nan  and  her  sis- 
ters dispensed  strawberries  and  cream  with  the  de- 
licious home-made  bread  and  butter;  while  Mrs. 
Challoner  sat  among  a  few  chosen  spirits  knitting 
and  talking  in  her  pleasant  low-toned  voice,  quite 
content  that  the  burden  of  responsibility  should  rest 
upon  her  daughters. 

Mrs.  Challoner  always  smiled  when  people  told 
her  that  she  ought  to  be  proud  of  her  girls.  No 
daughters  were  ever  so  much  to  their  mothers  as 
hers;  she  simply  lived  in  and  for  them;  she  saw 
with  their  eyes,  thought  with  their  thoughts — was 
hardly  herself  at  all,  but  Nan  and  Phillis  and  Dulce, 
each  by  turns. 

,  Long  ago  they  had  grown  up  to  her  growth. 
Mrs.  Challoner's  nature  was  hardly  a  self-sufficing 
one.  During  her  husband's  life-time  she  had  been 
braced  by  his  influence  and  cheered  by  his  example, 
and  had  sought  to  guide  her  children  according  to 
his  directions;  in  a  word,  his  manly  strength  had  so 
supported  her  that  no  one,  not  even  her  shrewd 
young  daughters,  guessed  at  the  interior  weakness, 


6  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

When  her  stay  was  removed,  Mrs.  Challoner 
ceased  to  guide,  and  came  down  to  her  children's 
level.  She  was  more  like  their  sister  than  their 
mother,  people  said ;  and  yet  no  mother  was  more 
cherished  than  she. 

Her  very  weakness  made  her  sacred  in  her 
daughters'  eyes;  her  widowhood,  and  a  certain  fail- 
ure of  health,  made  her  the  subject  of  their  choicest 
care. 

It  could  not  be  said  that  there  was  much  amiss, 
but  years  ago  a  doctor  whom  Mrs.  Challoner  had 
consulted  had  looked  grave,  and  mentioned  the 
name  of  a  disease  of  which  certain  symptoms  re- 
minded him.  There  was  no  ground  for  present 
apprehension;  the  whole  thing  was  very  shadowy 
and  unsubstantial — a  mere  hint — a  question  of 
care ;  nevertheless,  the  word  had  been  said,  and  the 
mischief  done. 

From  that  time  Mrs.  Challoner  was  wont  to  speak 
gloomily  of  her  health,  as  of  one  doomed.  She  was 
by  nature  languid  and  lympathic,  but  now  her  lan- 
guor increased;  always  averse  to  effort,  she  now 
left  all  action  to  her  daughters.  It  was  they  who 
decided  and  regulated  the  affairs  of  their  modest 
household,  and  rarely  were  such  wise  rulers  to  be 
found  in  girls  of  their  age.  Mrs.  Challoner  merely 
acquiesced,  for  in  Glen  Cottage  there  was  seldom  a 
dissentient  voice,  unless  it  were  that  of  Dorothy, 
who  had  been  Dulce's  nurse,  and  took  upon  herself 
the  airs  of  an  old  servant  who  could  not  be  re- 
placed. 

They  were  all  pretty  girls,  the  three  Misses  Chal- 
loner, but  Nan  was  par  excellence  the  prettiest.  No 
one  could  deny  that  fact  who  saw  them  together. 
Her  features  were  more  regular  than  her  sisters', 
and  her  color  more  transparent.  She  was  tall,  too, 
and  her  figure  had  a  certain  willowy  grace  that  was 
most  uncommon;  but  what  attracted  people  most 
was  a  frankness  and  unconsciousness  of  manner 
that  was  perfectly  charming, 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  7 

Phillis,  the  second  sister,  was  not  absolutely 
pretty,  perhaps,  but  she  was  nice  looking,  and  there 
was  something  in  her  expression  that  made  people 
say  she  was  clever;  she  could  talk  on  occasions  with 
a  fluency  that  was  quite  surprising,  and  that  would 
cast  Nan  into  the  shade.  "If  I  were  only  as  clever 
as  Phillis!"  Nan  would  sigh. 

Then  there  was  Dulce,  who  was  only  just  eigh 
teen,  and  whom  her  sisters  treated  as  the  family 
pet;  who  was  light  and   small  and  nimble  in  her 
movements,  and    looked    even    younger  than   she 
really  was. 

Nobody  ever  noticed  if  Dulce  were  pretty;  no  one 
questioned  if  her  features  were  regular  or  not,  or 
cared  to  do  such  a  thing.  Only  when  she  smiled, 
the  prettiest  dimple  came  into  her  cheek,  and  her 
eyes  had  a  fearless  childlike  look  in  them;  for  the 
rest,  she  was  just  Dulce. 

The  good-looking  daughters  of  a  good-looking 
mother,  as  somebody  called  them ;  and  there  was  no 
denying  that  Mrs.  Challoner  was  still  wonderfully 
well  preserved,  and,  in  spite  of  her  languor  and  in- 
valid airs,  a  very  pretty  woman. 

Five-o'clock  tea  had  long  been  over  at  the  cottage 
this  afternoon,  and  a  somewhat  lengthy  game  of 
tennis  had  followed;  after  which  the  visitors  had 
dispersed  as  usual,  and  the  girls  had  come  in  to  pre- 
pare for  the  half  past  seven-o'clock  dinner;  for 
Glen  Cottage  followed  the  fashion  of  its  richer 
neighbors,  and  set  out  its  frugal  meal  with  a  proper 
accompaniment  of  flower-vases  and  evening 
toilet. 

The  three  sisters  came  up  the  lawn  together,  but 
Nan  carried  her  racket  a  little  languidly;  she 
looked  a  trifle  grave. 

Mrs.  Challoner  laid  down  her  knitting  and  looked 
at  them,  and  then  she  regarded  her  watclv  plain- 
tively. 

MIs  it  late,  mother?"  asked  Nan,  who  never 
missed  any  of  her  mother's  movements*  "T'e* 


8  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

minutes  past  seven!  No  wonder  the  afternoon 
seemed  long." 

4  *  No  one  found  it  long  but  Nan,"  observed  Dulce, 
with  an  arch  glance  at  her  sister,  at  which  Nan 
slightly  colored,  but  took  no  further  notice.  "By 
the  bye,"  she  continued,  as  though  struck  by  a  sud- 
den recollection,  "what  can  have  become  of  Dick 
this  afternoon?  He  so  seldom  fails  us  without  tell- 
ing us  beforehand. " 

"That  will  soon  be  explained,"  observed  Phillis, 
oracularly,  as  the  gate-bell  sounded,  and  was  imme- 
diately followed  by  sharp  footsteps  on  the  gravel 
and  the  unceremonious  entrance  of  a  young  man 
through  the  open  window. 

"Better  late  than  never,"  exclaimed  two  of  the 
girls.  Nan  said:  "Why,  what  has  made  you  play 
truant,  Dick?"  in  a  slightly  injured  voice.  But 
Mrs.  Challoner  merely  smiled  at  him,  and  said  noth- 
ing; young  men  were  her  natural  enemies,  and  she 
knew  it.  She  was  civil  to  them  and  endured  their 
company,  and  that  was  all. 

Dick  Mayne  was  not  a  formidable-looking  indi- 
vidual; he  was  a  strong,  thick-set  young  fellow, 
with  broad  shoulders,  not  much  above  middle 
height,  and  decidedly  plain,  except  in  his  mother's 
eyes;  and  she  thought  even  Dick's  sandy  hair 
beautiful. 

But  in  spite  of  his  plainness  he  was  a  pleasant, 
well-bred  young  fellow,  with  a  fund  of  good  humor 
and  drollery,  and  a  pair  of  honest  eyes  that  people 
learned  to  trust.  Every  one  liked  him,  and  no  one 
ever  said  a  word  in  his  dispraise ;  and  for  the  rest, 
he  could  tyrannize  as  royally  as  any  other  young 
man  who  is  his  family's  sole  blessing. 

"It  was  all  my  ill  luck,"  grumbled  Dick.  "Tre- 
vanion  of  Exeter  came  over  to  our  place,  and  of 
course  the  mater  pressed  him  to  stay  for  luncheon ; 
and  then  nothing  would  do  but  a  long  walk  over 
Hilberry  Downs." 

"Why  did  you  not  oring  him  here?"  interrupted 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  $ 

Dulce,  with  a  pout.  "You  tiresome  Dick,  when 
you  must  know  what  a  godsend  a  strange  young  man 
is  in  these  wilds!" 

"My  dear!"  reproved  her  mother. 

"Oh,  but  it  is  true,  mamma,"  persisted  the  out- 
spoken Dulce.  "Think  how  pleased  Carrie  and 
Sophie  Pain  would  have  been  at  the  sight  of  a  fresh 
face!  It  was  horrid  of  you,  sir!" 

"I  wanted  him  to  come,"  returned  the  young 
man,  in  a  deprecating  voice.  "1  told  him  how 
awfully  jolly  it  always  is  here,  and  that  he  would 
be  sure  to  meet  a  lot  of  nice  people,  but  there  was 
no  persuading  him ;  he  wanted  a  walk  and  a  talk 
about  our  fellows.  That  is  the  worst  of  Trevanion, 
he  always  will  have  his  own  way." 

"Never  mind,"  returned  Nan,  pleasantly;  she 
seemed  to  have  recovered  her  sprightliness  all  at 
once.  "It  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  so  often; 
and  we  had  Mr.  Parker  and  his  cousin  to  look  after 
the  Paines." 

"Oh,  yes!  we  did  very  well,"  observed  Phillis, 
tranquilly,  *  Mother,  now  Dick  has  come  so  late, 
he  had  better  stay. " 

"If  I  only  may  do  so?*'  returned  Dick^  but  his  in- 
quiry was  directed  to  Nan. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  may  stay,"  she  remarked,  care- 
lessly, as  she  moved  away;  but  there  was  a  little 
pleased  smile  on  her  face  that  he  failed  to  see.  She 
nodded  pleasantly  to  him  as  he  darted  forward  to 
open  the  door.  It  was  Nan  who  always  dispensed 
the  hospitalities  of  the  house,  whose  decision  was 
unalterable.  Dick  had  learned  what  it  was  to  be 
sent  about  his  business;  only  once  had  he  dared  to 
remain  without  her  sovereign  permission,  and  on 
that  occasion  he  had  been  treated  by  her  with  such 
dignified  politeness  that  he  would  rather  have  been 
sent  to  Coventry. 

This  evening  the  fates  were  propitious,  and  Dick 
understood  that  the  scepter  of  favor  was  to  be  ex- 
tended to  him.  When  the  girls  had  flitted  into  the 


10  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

little  dusky  hall  he  closed  the  door  and  sat  down 
happily  beside  Mrs.  Challoner,  to  whom  he  decanted 
eloquently  of  the  beauties  of  Hilberry  and  the  vir- 
tues of  Ned  Trevanion. 

Mrs.  Challoner  listened  placidly  as  the  knitting- 
needles  flashed  between  her  long  white  fingers. 
She  was  very  fond  of  Dick,  after  her  temperate 
fashion;  she  had  known  him  from  a  child,  and  seen 
him  grow  up  among  them  until  he  had  become  like 
a  son  of  the  house.  Dick,  who  had  no.  brothers  and 
sisters  of  his  own,  and  whose  parents  had  not  mar- 
ried until  they  were  long  past  youth,  had  adopted 
brotherly  airs  with  the  Challoner  girls ;  they  called 
one  another  by  their  Christian  names,  and  he  re- 
posed in  them  the  confidences  that  young  men  are 
wont  to  give  to  their  belongings. 

With  Nan  this  easy  familiarity  had  of  late 
merged  into  something  different:  a  reserve,  a  tim- 
idity, a  subtile  suspicion  of  change  had  crept  into 
their  intimacy.  Nan  felt  that  Dick's  manner  had 
altered,  but  somehow  she  liked  it  better;  his  was 
always  a  sweet,  bountiful  nature,  but  now  it  seemed 
to  have  deepened  into  greater  manliness.  Dick 
was  growing  older;  Oxford  training  was  polishing 
hinx  After  each  one  of  his  brief  absences  Nan  saw 
a  greater  change,  a  more  marked  deference,  and 
secretly  hoped  that  no  one  else  noticed  it.  When 
the  young  undergraduate  wrote  dutiful  letters  home 
the  longest  messages  were  always  for  Nan ;  when 
he  carried  little  offerings  of  flowers  to  his  neigh- 
bors, Nan's  bouquet  was  always  the  choicest;  he 
distinguished  her,  too,  on  all  occasions  by  those 
small,  nameless  attentions  which  never  fail  to 
please. 

Nan  kept  her  own  counsel,  and  never  spoke  of 
those  things.  She  said  openly  that  Dick  was  ver)' 
nice  and  very  much  improved,  and  that  they  always 
missed  him  sadly  during  Oxford  terms;  but  she 
never  breathed  a  syllable  that  might  make  people 
suspect  that  this  ordinary  young  man  with  sandy 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  11 

hair  was  more  to  her  than  other  young  men. 
Nevertheless,  Phillis  and  Dulce  knew  that  such  was 
the  case,  and  Mrs.  Challoner  understood  that  the 
most  dangerous  enemy  to  her  peace  was  this  lively 
spoken  Dick. 

Dick  was  very  amusing,  for  he  was  an  eloquent 
young  fellow :  nevertheless,  Mrs.  Challoner  sighed 
more  than  once,  and  her  attention  visibly  wan- 
dered; seeing  which,  Dick  good-humoredly  left  off 
talking,  and  began  inspecting  the  different  articles 
in  Nan's  work-basket. 

<4I  am  afraid  I  have  given  your  mother  a  head- 
ache," he  said,  when  they  were  sitting  round  the 
circular  table  in  the  low-oddly  shaped  dining-room. 
There  was  a  corner  cut  off,  and  the  windows  were 
in  unexpected  places,  which  made  it  unlike  other 
rooms;  but  Dick  loved  it  better  than  the  great  din- 
ing-room at  Longmead;  and  somehow  it  had  never 
looked  cozier  to  him  than  it  did  this  evening.  It 
was  somewhat  dark,  owing  to  the  shade  of  the  ver- 
anda; so  the  lamp  was  lighted,  and  the  pleasant 
scent  of  roses  and  lilies  came  through  the  open  win- 
dows, A  belated  wasp  hovered  round  the  specimen 
glasses  that  Nan  had  filled;  Dick  tried  to  make 
havoc .  of  the  enemy  with  his  table-napkin.  The 
girls*  white  dresses  suited  their  fresh  young  faces. 
Nan  had  fastened  a  crimson  rose  in  her  gown ;  Phil- 
lis and  Dulce  had  knots  of  blue  ribbon.  "Trevanion 
does  not  know  what  he  lost  by  his  obstinacy," 
thought  Dick  as  he  glanced  round  the  table. 

4 'What  were  you  and  the  mother  discussing?" 
asked  Dulce,  curiously. 

44  Dick  was  telling  me  about  his  friend.  He 
seemed  a  very  superior  young  man,"  returned  Mrs. 
Challoner.  "I  suppose  you  have  asked  him  for  your 
party  next  week/0 

Dick  turned  very  red  at  this  question.  "Mater 
asked  him;  you  may  trust  her  for  that.  If  it  were 
not  for  father,  I  think  she  would  turn  the  whole 


12  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

house  out  of  the  windows:  every  day  some  one  fresh 
is  invited." 

44 How  delightful!  and  all  in  your  honor/'  ex- 
claimed Dulce,  mischievously. 

"That  spoils  the  whole  thing,"  grumbled  the  heir 
of  the  Maynes:  44it  is  a  perfect  shame  that  a  fellow 
can  not  come  of  age  quietly,  without  his  people 
making  this  fuss.  I  begin  to  think  I  was  a  fool  for 
my  pains  to  refuse  the  ball." 

/  "Yes,  indeed;  just  because  you  were  afraid  of  the 
supper  speeches,"  laughed  Dulce,  *4when  we  all 
wanted  it  so." 

4 'Never  mind,"  returned  Dick,  sturdily;  "the 
mater  shall  give  us  one  in  the  winter,  and  we  will 
have  Godfrey's  Band,  and  I  will  get  all  our  fellows 
to  come." 

4 'That  will  be  delightful/*  observed  Nan,  and  her 
eyes  sparkled — already  she  saw  herself  led  out  for 
the  first  dance  by  the  son  of  the  house — but  Dulce 
interrupted  her: 

4 'But  all  the  same,  I  wish  Dick  had  not  been  so 
stupid  about  it.  No  one  knows  what  may  happen 
before  the  winter.  I  hate  put-off  things." 

41  *A  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush* — 
eh,  Miss  Dulce?" 

4 'Yes,  indeed;  that  proverb  is  truer  than  people 
think,"  she  replied,  with  a  wise  nod  of  her  head. 
"Don't  you  remember,  Nan,  when  the  Parkers' 
dance  was  put  off,  and  then  old  Mr.  Parker  died ; 
and  nearly  the  same  thing  happened  with  the  Nor- 
mantons,  only  it  was  an  uncle  in  that  case." 

4 'Moral:  never  put  off  a  dance,  in  case  somebody 
dies." 

"Oh,  hush,  please!"  groaned  Nan,  in  a  shocked 
voice;  "I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  about  such 
dreadful  things.  After  all,  it  is  such  delicious 
weather  than  I  am  not  sure  a  garden-party  will  not 
be  more  enjoyable;  and  you  know,  Dulce,  that  we 
are  to  dance  on  the  lawn  if  we  like/' 

"And  supposing  it  should  rain/'  put  in  that  ex- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  13 

tremely  troublesome  young  person,  at  which  sug- 
gestion Dick  looked  very  gloomy. 

"In  that  case  I  think  we  must  persuade  Mrs. 
Mayne  to  clear  a  room  for  us,"  returned  Nan, 
cheerfully.  "If  your  mother  consults  me,"  she 
continued,  addressing  Dick,  who  visibly  brightened 
at  this,  "I  shall  recommend  her  to  empty  the  front 
drawing-room  as  much  as  possible.  There  is  the 
grand  piano,  or  the  band  might  come  in-doors; 
there  will  be  plenty  of  room  for  the  young  people, 
and  the  non-dancers  can  be  drafted  off  into  the 
inner  drawing-room  and  conservatory. ' ' 

"What  a  head  you  have!"  exclaimed  Dick,  ad- 
miringly; and  Phillis,  who  had  not  joined  in  the 
argument,  was  pleased  to  observe  that  she  was 
quite  of  Nan's  opinion:  dancing  was  imperative, 
and  if  the  lawns  were  wet  they  must  manage  in- 
doors somehow.  "It  would  never  do  for  people  to 
be  bored  and  listless,"  finished  the  young  lady, 
sententiously,  and  such  was  Phillis's  cleverness  that 
it  was  understood  at  once  that  the  oracle  had 
spoken ;  but  then  it  was  never  known  for  Nan  and 
Phillis  to  differ. 

Things  being  thus  amicably  arranged,  the  rest  of 
the  conversation  flowed  evenly  on  every  other  point, 
such  as  the  arrangements  of  the  tennis-matches  in 
the  large  meadow,  and  the  exact  position  of  the  mar- 
quees; but  just  as  they  were  leaving  the  table  Dick 
said  another  word  to  Nan  in  a  somewhat  low  voice: 

"It  is  all  very  well,  but  this  sort  of  thing  does 
make  a  fellow  such  a  conceited  fool. " 

"If  I  were  you  I  would  not  think  about  it  at  all," 
she  returned  in  her  sensible  way.  "The  neighbor- 
hood will  expect  something  of  the  kind,  and  we  owe 
a  little  to  the  other  people ;  then  it  pleases  your 
mother  to  make  a  fuss,  as  you  call  it,  and  it  would 
be  too  ungrateful  to  disappoint  her." 

**Well,  perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  returned,  in 
a  slightly  mollified  tone,  for  he  was  a  modest  young 
fellow,  and  the  whole  business  had  occasioned 


14  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

some  soreness  of  spirit.  "Take  it  all  in  all,  one 
has  an  awful  lot  to  go  through  in  life;  there  are  the 
measles,  you  know,  and  whooping-cough,  and  the 
dentist,  and  one's  examination,  and  no  end  of  un- 
pleasant things,  but  to  be  made  by  one's  own 
mother  to  feel  like  an  idiot  for  a  whole  afternoon! 
Never  mind;  it  can  be  got  through  somehow,"  fin- 
ished the  young  philosopher,  with  a  sigh  that  sent 
Nan  into  a  fit  of  laughter. 


CHAPTER  II. 

DICK    OBJECTS    TO    THE    MOUNTAINS. 

"Shall  we  have  our  usual  stroll?"  asked  Phillis, 
as  Nan  and  Dick  joined  her  at  the  window. 

This  was  one  of  the  customs  at  Glen  Cottage. 
When  any  such  fitting  escort  offered  itself,  the 
three  girls  would  put  on  their  hats,  and,  regardless 
of  the  evening  dews  and  their  crisp  white  dresses, 
would  saunter,  under  Dick's  guidance,  through  the 
quiet  village,  or  down  and  up  the  country  roads 
41  just  for  a  breath  of  air,"  as  they  would  say* 

It  is  only  fair  to  Mrs.  Challoner's  views  of  propri- 
ety to  say  that  she  would  have  trusted  her  three 
pretty  daughters  to  no  other  young  man  but  Dick ; 
and  of  late  certain  prudential  doubts  had  crossed 
her  mind.  It  was  all  very  well  for  Phillis  to  say 
Dick  was  Dick,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it.  After 
all,  he  belonged  to  the  phalanx  of  her  enemies, 
those  shadowy  invaders  of  her  hearth  that  threat- 
ened her  maternal  peace.  Dick  was  not  a  boy  any 
longer,  he  had  outgrown  his  hobbledehoy  ways;  the 
slight  sandy  mustache  that  he  so  proudly  caressed 
was  not  a  greater  proof  of  his  manhood  than  the  un- 
definable  change  that  had  passed  over  his  manners. 
Mrs.  Challoner  began  to  distrust  these  evening 
strolls,  and  to  turn  over  in  her  own  mind  various 
wary  pretexts  for  detaining  Nan  on  the  next  occa- 
sion. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  15 

4 'Just  this  once,  perhaps  it  does  not  matter,"  she 
murmured  to  herself,  as  she  composed  herself  to  her 
usual  nap. 

44  We  shall  not  be  long,  little  mother;  so  you  must 
not  be  dull,"  Dulce  had  said,  kissing  her  lightly 
over  her  eyes.  This  was  just  one  of  the  pleasant 
fictions  at  the  cottage — one  of  those  graceful  little 
deceptions  that  are  so  harmless  in  families. 

Dulce  knew  of  those  placid  after-dinner  naps. 
She  knew  her  mother's  eyes  would  only  unclose  when 
Dorothy  brought  in  the  tea-tray  ;but  she  was  also  con- 
scious that  nothing  would  displease  her  mother 
more  than  to  notice  this  habit.  When  they  lingered 
in-doors,  and  talked  in  whispers  so  as  not  to  disturb 
her,  Mrs.  Challoner  had  an  extraordinary  facility 
for  striking  into  the  conversation  in  a  way  that  was 
somewhat  confusing. 

44I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all/'  she  would  say,  in 
a  drowsy  voice.  44Is  it  not  time  for  Dorothy  to 
bring  in  the  tea?  I  wish  you  would  all  talk  louder. 
I  must  be  getting  a  little  deaf,  I  think,  for  I  don't 
hear  half  you  say. ' ' 

44Oh,  it  was  only  nonsense  talk,  mammie,"  Dulce 
would  answer;  and  the  sisterly  chit-chat  would  re- 
commence, and  her  mother's  head  nid-nodded  on 
the  cushions  until  the  next  interruption. 

44 We  shall  not  have  many  more  of  these  strolls,1' 
observed  Dick,  regretfully,  as  they  walked  together 
through  the  village,  and  then  branched  off  into  a 
long  country  road,  where  the  air  blew  freshly  in 
their  faces  and  low  mists  hung  over  the  meadow- 
land.  Though  it  was  not  quite  dark,  there  was  a 
tiny  moon,  and  the  glimmer  of  a  star  or  two;  and 
there  was  a  pleasant  fragrance  as  of  new-mown 
grass. 

They  were  all  walking  abreast,  and  keeping  step, 
and  Dick  was  in  the  middle  with  Nan  beside  him. 
Dulce  was  hanging  on  to  her  arm,  and  every  now 
and  then  breaking  into  little  snatches  of  song. 

.4*How  I  envy-  you!"  exclaime<J  Phillip     "Thiuk 

'..•••    •  *   • y         -t         ...........    .  ^ . . , 


16  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

of  spending  three  whole  months  in  Switzerland! 
Oh,  you  lucky  Dick!0 

For  the  Maynes  had  decided  to  pass  the  long 
vacation  in  the  Engadine.  Some  hints  had  been 
dropped  that  Nan  should  accompany  them,  but 
Mrs  Challoner  had  regarded  the  invitation  with 
some  disfavor,  and  Mrs.  Mayne  had  not  pressed  the 
point.  If  only  Nan  had  known!  but  her  mother  had 
in  this  matter  kept  her  own  counsel. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  dissented  Dick;  he 
was  rather  given  to  argue  from  the  mere  pleasure 
ot  opposition.  "  Mountains  and  glaciers  are  all 
very  well  in  their  way;  but  I  think,  on  the  whole,  I 
would  as  soon  be  here.  You  see,  I  am  so  accus- 
tomed to  mix  up  with  a  lot  of  fellows,  that  I  am 
afraid  of  finding  the  pater's  sole  company  rather 
slow. '  * 

44 For  shame!"  remarked  his  usual  moni tress. 
But  she  spoke  gently ;  in  her  heart  she  knew  why 
Dick  failed  to  find  the  mountains  alluring. 

"Why  could  not  one  of  you  girls  join  us?"  he  con- 
tinued, wrathfully.  The  rogue  had  fairly  bullied 
the  unwilling  Mrs.  Mayne  into  giving  that  invita- 
tion. 

"Do  ask  her,  mother;  she  will  be  such  a  nice 
companion  for  you  when  the  pater  and  I  are  doing 
our  climbing;  do,  there's  a  dear  good  soul!"  he 
coaxed.  And  the  dear  good  soul,  who  was  secretly 
jealous  of  Nan  and  loved  her  about  as  much  as 
mothers  usually  love  an  only  son's  choice,  had  be- 
wailed her  hard  fate  in  secret,  and  had  then  stepped 
over  to  the  cottage  with  a  bland  and  cheerful  exte- 
rior, which  grew  more  cheerful  as  Mrs.  Challoner's 
reluctance  made  itself  felt. 

"It  is  not  wise;  it  will  throw  them  so  much 
together,"  Nan's  mother  had  said.  "If  it  were 
only  PhillisorDulce;  but  you  must  have  noticed — " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  noticed!"  returned  Mrs.  Mayne, 
hastily  She  was  a  stout,  comely  looking  woman, 
but  beside  Mrs.  Challoner  she  looked  like  a  house- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  17 

keeper  dressed  in  her  mistress'  smart  clothes.  Mrs. 
Mayne's  dresses  never  seemed  to  belong  to  her;  it 
could  not  be  said  that  they  fitted  her  ill,  but  there 
was  a  want  of  adaptability — a  lack  of  taste  that 
failed  to  accord  with  her  florid  style  of  beauty. 

She  had  been  a  handsome  woman  when  Richard 
Mayne  married  her,  but  a  certain  deepening  of  tints 
and  broadening  of  contour  had  not  improved  the 
mistress  of  Longmead.  Her  husband  was  a  de- 
cided contrast;  but  he  was  a  small,  wiry  man,  with 
sharp  features  that  expressed  a  great  deal  of 
shrewdness.  Dick  had  got  his  sandy  hair;  but 
Richard  Mayne  the  elder  had  not  his  son's  honest, 
kindly  eyes.  Mr.  Mayne's  were  small  and  twink- 
ling; he  had  a  way  of  looking  at  people  between  his 
half-closed  lids  in  a  manner  half  sharp  and  half  joc- 
ular. 

He  was  not  vulgar,  far  from  it;  but  he  had  a 
homely  air  about  him  that  spoke  of  the  self-made 
man.  He  was  rather  fond  of  telling  people  that  his 
father  had  been  in  trade  in  a  small  way,  and  that 
he  himself  had  been  the  sole  architect  of  his  fort- 
une. "Look  at  Dick,"  he  would  say;  "he  wouid 
never  have  a  penny,  that  fellow,  unless  I  made  it 
for  him;  he  has  come  into  the  world  to  find  bis 
bread  ready  buttered.  I  had  to  be  content  witln  a 
crust  as  I  could  earn  it.  The  lad's  a  cut  above  us 
both,  though  he  has  the  good  taste  to  try  and  hide  if,. ' ' 

This  sagacious  speech  was  very  true.  Dtck 
would  never  have  succeeded  as  a  business  man ;  he 
was  too  full  of  crotchets  and  speculations  to  be  con- 
tent to  run  in  narrow  grooves.  The  notion  of 
money-making  was  abhorrent  to  him ;  the  idea  of  a 
city  life,  with  its  hard  rubs  and  drudgery,  was  ut- 
terly distasteful  to  him.  "One  would  have  to  mix 
with  such  a  lot  of  cads,"  he  would  say.  "English, 
pure  and  undefiled,  is  not  always  spoken,  if  I 
must  work,  I  would  rather  have  a  turn  at  law  or 
divinity ;  the  three  old  women  with  the  eye  between 
them  knows  which. " 


18  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

It  could  not  be  denied  that  Dick  winced  a  little 
at  his  father's  homely  speeches;  but  in  his  heart  he 
was  both  proud  and  fond  of  him,  and  was  given  to 
assert  to  a  few  of  his  closest  friends  "that,  take  it 
all  in  all,  and  looking  at  other  fellows'  fathers,  he 
was  a  rattling  good  sort,  and  no  mistake." 

When  Mrs.  Challoner  had  entered  her  little  pro- 
test against  her  daughter's  acceptance  of  the  invita- 
tion, Mrs.  Mayne  had  risen  and  kissed  her  with 
some  effusion  as  she  took  her  leave. 

"It  is  so  nice  of  you  to  say  this  to  me;  of  course, 
I  should  have  been  pleased,  delighted  to  have  had 
Nan  with  us"  (oh,  Mrs.  Mayne,  fy  for  shame!  when 
you  want  your  boy  to  yourself),  "but  all  the  same 
I  think  you  are  so  wise." 

"Poor  child!  I  am  afraid  I  am  refusing  her  a 
great  treat,"  returned  Mrs.  Challoner,  in  a  tone  of 
regret.  It  was  the  first  time  since  her  husband's 
death  that  she  had  ever  decided  anything  without 
reference  to  her  daughters;  but  for  once  her  mater- 
nal fears  were  up  in  arms,  and  drove  her  to  sudden 
resolution. 

"Yes,  but  as  you  observed,  it  would  throw  them 
so  entirely  together;  and  Dick  is  so  young.  Richard 
was  only  saying  the  other  night  that  he  hoped  the 
boy  would  not  fancy  himself  in  love  for  the  next 
two  years,  as  he  did  not  approve  of  such  early  en- 
gagements." 

"Neither  do  I,  "returned  Mrs.  Challoner,  quickly. 
*l  Nothing  would  annoy  me  more  than  for  one  of  my 
daughters  to  entangle  herself  with  so  young  a  man. 
We  know  the  world  too  well  for  that,  Mrs.  Mayne. 
Why,  Dick  may  fall  in  and  out  of  love  half  a  dozen 
times  before  he  really  makes  up  his  mind." 

.  "Ah,  that  is  what  Richard  says,"  returned  Dick's 
mother,  with  a  sigh ;  in  her  heart  she  was  not  quite 
of  her  husband's  opinion.  She  remembered  how 
that  long  waiting  wasted  her  own  youth— waiting 
for  what?  For  comforts  that  she  would  gladly  have 
done  without — for  a  well-furnished  house,  when 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  19 

she  would  have  lived  happily  in  the  poorest  lodging 
with  the  Richard  Mayne  who  had  won  her  heart — 
for  whom  she  would  have  toiled  and  slaved  with  the 
self-abnegating  devotion  of  a  loving  woman,  only 
he  feared  to  have  it  so. 

"  4When  poverty  enters  the  door,  love  flies  out  of 
the  window;'  we  had  better  make  up  our  minds  to 
wait,  Bessie.  I  can  better  work  in  single  than 
double  harness  just  now."  That  was  what  he  said 
to  her;  and  Bessie  waited — not  till  she  grew  thin, 
but  stout,  and  the  spirit  of  her  youth  was  gone;  and 
it  was  a  sober,  middle-aged  woman  who  took  pos- 
session of  the  long-expected  home. 

Mrs.  Mayne  loved  her  husband,  but  during  that 
tedious  engagement  her  ardor  had  a  little  cooled, 
and  it  may  be  doubted  whether  the  younger  Rich- 
ard was  not  dearer  to  her  than  his  father;  which 
was  ungrateful,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  as  Mr.  Mayne 
doted  on  his  comely  wife,  and  thought  Bessie  as 
handsome  now  as  in  the  days  when  she  came  out 
smiling  to  welcome  him,  a  slim  young  creature  with 
youthful  roses  in  her  cheeks. 

From  this  brief  conversation  it  may  be  seen  that 
none  of  the  elders  quite  approved  of  this  budding 
affection.  Mrs.  Challoner,  who  belonged  to  a  good 
old  family,  found  it  hard  to  forgive  the  Maynes' 
lowliness  of  birth;  and  though  she  liked  Dick,  she, 
thought  Nan  could  do  better  for  herself.  Mr. 
Mayne  pooh-poohed  the  whole  thing  so  entirely 
that  the  women  could  only  speak  of  it  among  them- 
selves. 

4 'Dick  is  a  clever  fellow;  he  ought  to  marry 
money,"  he  would  say.  "I  am  not  a  millionaire, 
and  a  little  more  would  be  acceptable;"  and,  though 
he  was  always  kind  to  Nan  and  her  sisters,  he  was 
forever  dealing  sly  hits  at  her.  "Phillis  has  the 
brains  of  the  family,  "he  would  say;  **  that  is  the 
girl  for  my  money.  I  call  her  a  vast  deal  better 
looking  than  Nan,  though  people  make  such  a  fuss 
about  t-he  other  one;"  a  spe-ecn  he  was  never  tired 


20  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

of  repeating  in  his  son's  presence,  and  at  which 
Dick  snapped  his  finger  metaphorically  and  said 
nothing. 

When  Dick  wished  that  one  of  them  were  going 
to  Switzerland,  Nan  sighed  furtively.  Dick  was 
going  away  for  three  months,  for  the  remainder  of 
the  long  vacation.  After  next  week  they  would  not 
see  him  until  Christmas — near  six  months.  A 
sense  of  dreariness,  as  new  as  it  was  strange,  swept 
momentarily  over  Nan  as  she  pondered  this.  The 
summer  months  would  be  grievously  clouded.  Dick 
had  been  the  moving  spirit  of  all  the  fun;  the 
tennis- parties,  the  pleasant  dawdling  afternoons, 
would  lose  their  zest  when  he  was  away.  She  re- 
membered how  persistently  he  had  haunted  their 
footsteps.  When  they  paid  visits  to  the  Manor 
House,  or  Gardenhurst,  or  Fitzroy  Lodge,  Dick  was 
sure  to  put  in  an  appearance.  People  had  nick- 
named him  the  "Challoners'  Squire;"  but  now 
Nan  must  go  squireless  for  the  rest  of  the  summer, 
unless  she  took  compassion  on  Stanley  Parker,  or 
that  dreadful  chatter-box  his  cousin. 

The  male  population  was  somewhat  sparse  at  Old- 
field.  There  were  a  few  Eton  boys,  and  one  or 
two  in  that  delightful  transition  age  when  youth  is 
most  bashful  and  uninteresting — a  sort  of  unfledged 
manhood,  when  the  smooth,  boyish  cheek  contra- 
dicts the  deepened  base  of  the  voice — an  age  that 
has  not  ceased  to  blush,  and  which  is  full  of  aggra- 
vating idiosyncracies  and  unexpected  angles. 

To  be  sure,  Lord  Fitzroy  was  a  splendid  specimen 
of  a  young  guardsman,  but  he  had  lately  taken  to 
himself  a  wife,  and  Sir  Alfred  Mostyn,  who  was  also 
somewhat  attractive  and  a  very  pleasant  fellow,  and 
unattached  at  present,  had  a  tiresome  habit  of  rush- 
ing off  to  Norway,  or  St.  Petersburg,  or  Niagara, 
or  the  Rocky  Mountains,  for  what  he  termed  sport, 
or  a  lark. 

4*It  seems  we  are  very  stupid  this  evening,1'  ob- 
served PhilUs,  for  Dick  had  waxed  altaaost  as  silent 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  « 

as  Nan.  44I  think  the  mother  must  nearly  have 
finished  her  nap,  so  I  propose  we  go  back  and  have 
some  tea,"  and,  as  Nan  languidly  acquiesced,  they 
turned  their  faces  toward  the  village  again,  Dulce 
still  holding  firmly  to  Nan's  arm.  By  and  by  Dick 
struck  out  in  a  fresh  direction. 

44I  say,  don't  you  wish  we  could  have  last  week 
over  again?" 

"Yes!  oh,  yes!  was  it  not  too  delicious?"  from 
the  three  girls;  and  Nan  added,  *I  never  enjoyed 
anything  so  much  in  my  life,"  in  a  tone  so  fervent 
that  Dick  was  delighted. 

44  What  a  brick  your  mother  was,  to  be  sure,  to 
spare  you  all!" 

"Yes;  and  she  was  so  dull,  poor  dear,  all  the  time 
we  were  away.  Dorothy  gave  us  quite  a  pitiful  ac- 
count when  we  got  home." 

44 It  was  a  treat  one  ought  to  remember  all  one's 
life,"  observed  Phillis,  quite  solemnly;  and  then 
ensued  a  most  animated  discussion. 

The  treat  to  which  Phillis  alluded  had  been  sim- 
ply perfect  in  the  three  girls'  eyes,  Dick,  who 
never  forgot  his  friends,  had  so  worked  upon  his 
mother  that  she  had  consented  to  chaperon  the 
three  sisters  during  Commemoration;  and  a  consent 
being  fairly  coaxed  out  of  Mrs,  Challoner,  the  plan 
was  put  into  execution. 

Dick,  who  was  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight, 
found  roomy  lodgings  in  the  High  Street,  in  which 
he  installed  his  enraptured  guests. 

The  five  days  that  followed  were  simply  hours 
snatched  out  of  fairy-land  to  these  four  happy  young 
creatures.  No  wonder  envious  looks  were  cast  at 
Dick  as  he  walked  in  Christ  Church  Meadows  with 
Nan  and  Dulce,  Phiilis  bringing  up  the  rear  some 
what  soberly  with  Mrs.  Mayne. 

44 One  pretty  face  would  content  most  fellows," 
his  friends  grumbled;  "but  when  you  come  to 
three,  and  not  his  own  sisters  either,  why,  it  isn't 
fair  on  other  folk."  And  to  Dick  they  said, 


22  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"Come,  it  is  no  use  being  so  awfully  close.  Of 
course,  we  see  what's  up;  you  are  a  lucky  dog. 
Which  is  it,  Mayne? — the  pretty  one  with  the  pink- 
and-white  complexion,  or  the  quiet  one  in  gray,  or 
the  one  with  the  mischievous  eyes?" 

"Faix,  they  are  all  darlints  and  jewels,  bless  their 
purty  faces!"  drawled  one  young  rogue,  in  his  favor- 
ite brogue.  "Here's  the  top  of  the  morning  to  ye, 
Mayne;  and  it  is  mavourneen  with  the  brown  eyes 
and  the  trick  of  the  smile  like  the  sunshine's  glint 
that  has  stolen  poor  Paddy's  heart." 

"Oh,  shut  up,  you  fellows!"  returned  Dick,  in  a 
disgusted  voice.  "What  is  the  good  of  your  pre- 
tending to  be  Irish,  Hamilton,  when  you  are  a 
canny  Scotchman?" 

"Hoots,  man,  mind  your  clavers!  You  need  not 
grizzle  at  a  creature  because  he  admires  a  wee 
gairl  that  is  just  beyond  the  lave — a  sonsie  wee 
thing  with  a  glint  in  her  een  like  diamonds." 

"Hamilton,  will  you  leave  off  this  foolery?" 

"Nae  doubt,  nae  doubt;  would  his  honor  pe  ax- 
ing if  he  pe  wrang  in  the  head,  puir  thing?  Never 
mind  that,  put  pe  giving  me  the  skene-dhu,  or  I 
will  fight  with  proad-swords  like  a  gentleman  for 
the  bit  lassie;"  but  here  a  wary  movement  on 
Dick's  part  extinguished  the  torrent  of  Highland 
eloquence,  and  brought  the  canny  Scotchman  to  the 
ground. 

Perfectly  oblivious  of  all  these  compliments,  the 
Challoners  enjoyed  themselves  with  the  zest  of 
healthy,  happy  English  girls.  They  were  simply 
indefatigable;  poor  Mrs.  Mayne  succumbed  utterly 
before  the  five  days  were  over. 

They  saw  the  procession  of  boats;  they  were  at 
the  flower-show  at  Worcester;  Sunday  afternoon 
found  them  in  the  Broad  Walk;  and  the  next  night 
they  were  dancing  at  the  University  ball. 

They  raved  about  the  beauty  of  Magdalen  cloist- 
ers; they  looked  down  admiringly  into  the  deer- 
park;  Addison's  Walk  became  known  to  them,  and 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  28 

the  gardens  of  St.  John's.  Phillis  talked  learnedly 
about  Cardinal  Wolsey  as  she  stood  in  Christ 
Church  hall;  and  in  the  theater  44 the  young  ladies 
in  pink'1  invoked  the  most  continuous  cheers. 

44 Can  they  mean  us?"  whispered  Dulce,  rather 
alarmed,  to  their  faithful  escort  Dick.  "I  don't  see 
any  other  pink  dresses!" 

And  Dick' said,  calmly: 

44  Well,  I  suppose  so.  Some  of  those  fellows  up 
there  are  such  a  trumpery  lot." 

So  Dulce  grew  more  reassured. 

But  the  greatest  fun  of  all  was  the  afternoon 
spent  in  Dick's  room,  when  all  his  special  friends 
were  bidden  to  five-o'clock  tea,  over  which  Nan,  in 
her  white  gown,  presided  so  gracefully. 

What  a  dear,  shabby  old  room  it  was,  with  old- 
fashioned  window-seats,  where  one  could  look  down 
into  the  quadrangle! 

Dick  was  an  Oriel  man,  and  thought  his  college 
superior  even  to  Magdalen. 

It  became  almost  too  hot  and  crowded  at  last,  so 
many  were  the  invitations  given;  but  then,  as  Dick 
said  afterward;  **he  was  such  a  soft-hearted  beggar 
that  he  could  not  refuse  the  fellows  that  pestered 
him  for  invitation." 

Mrs.  Mayne,  looking  very  proud  and  happy,  sat 
fanning  herself  in  one  of  these  windows.  Phillis 
and  Dulce  were  in  the  other,  attended  by  that  rogue 
Hamilton  and  half  a  dozen  more.  Nan  was  the 
center  of  another  clique,  who  hemmed  her  and  the 
tea-table  in  so  closely  that  Dick  had  to  wander  dis- 
consolately round  the  outskirts;  there  was  no-get- 
ting a  look  from  Nan  that  afternoon. 

How  hot  it  was!  It  was  a  grand  coup  when  the 
door  opened  and  the  scout  made  his  appearance 
carrying  a  tray  of  ices. 

4 'It  is  well  to  be  Mayne!"  half  grumbled  young 
Hamilton,  as  Dulce  took  one  gratefully  from  his 
hand.  <4He  is  treating  us  like  a  prince,  instead  of 
the  thin-bread-and-butter  entertainment  he  led  us 


2*  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

to  expect.  Put  down  that  tea,  Miss  Challoner;  1 
see  iced  claret-cup,  and  strawberries  in  the  corner. 
There  is  nothing  like  being  an  only  child:  doting 
parents  are  extremely  useful  articles.  I  am  one  of 
ten;  would  you  believe  it?"  continued  the  garrulous 
youth.  "When  one  has  six  brothers  older  than 
one's  self,  I  will  leave  you  to  imagine  the  conse- 
quences." 

"How  nice!"  returned  Dulce,  innocently;  44I  have 
always  so  longed  for  a  brother.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  Dick,  we  should  have  had  no  one  to  do  things 
for  us." 

44  Oh,  indeed!  Mayne  is  a  sort  of  adopted  bro- 
ther!" observed  her  companion,  looking  at  her 
rather  sharply. 

44  We  have  always  looked  upon  him  as  one.  We 
do  just  as  we  like  with  him — scold  and  tease  him, 
and  send  him  on  our  errands;1'  which  intelligence 
fairly  convinced  the  envious  Hamilton  that  the 
youngest  Miss  Challoner  was  not  his  friend's  fancy. 

Dick  always  recalled  that  evening  with  a  sense  of 
pride.  How  well  and  graceful  Nan  had  fulfilled 
her  duties!  how  pretty  she  had  looked,  in  spite  of 
her  flushed  cheeks!  He  had  never  seen  a  girl  to 
compare  with  her— not  he! 

They  were  so  full  of  these  delightful  reminis- 
cences that  they  were  at  the  cottage  gate  before 
they  knew  it;  and  then  Dick  astonished  them  by 
refusing  to  come  in.  He  had  quite  forgotten,  he 
said,  but  his  mother  had  asked  him  to  come  home 
early,  as  she  was  not  feeling  just  the  thing. 

"Quite  right;  you  must  do  as  she  wishes," 
returned  Nan,  dismissing  him  far  too  readily,  as  he 
thought;  but  she  said  44Good-night!"  with  so  kind 
a  smile  after  that,  that  the  foolish  young  fellow  felt 
his  pulses  quicken. 

Dick  lingered  at  the  corner  until  the  cottage  door 
was  closed,  and  then  he  raced  down  the  Longmead 
shrubbery  and  set  the  house-bell  pealing. 

"They  are  in  the  library,  1  suppose?"  he  asked 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  25 

ot  the  butler  who  admitted  him ;  and  on  receiving 
an  answer  in  the  affirmative,  he  dashed  uncermoni- 
ously  into  the  room,  while  his  mother  held  up  her 
finger  and  smiled  at  the  truant. 

"You  naughty  boy,  to  be  so  late,  and  now  you 
have  spoiled  your  father's  nap!"  said  she,  pretend- 
ing to  scold  him. 

k*Tut!  tut!  what  nonsense  you  talk  sometimes!" 
said  Mr.  Mayne,  rather  crossly,  as  he  stood  on  the 
hearth-rug  rubbing  his  eyes.  "I  was  not  asleep,  I 
will  take  my  oath  of  that;  t>nly  I  wish  Dick  could 
sometimes  enter  a  room  without  making  people 
jump;*'  by  which  Dick  knew  that  his  father  was  in 
one  of  his  contrary  moods,  when  he  could  be  very 
cross — very  cross  indeed ! 


CHAPTER  IIL 

MR.    MAYNE   MAKES   HIMSELF   DISAGREEABLE. 

The  library  at  Longmead  was  a  very  pleasant 
room,  and  it  was  the  custom  of  the  family  to  retire 
thither  on  occasions  when  guests  were  not  forth- 
coming, and  Mr.  Mayne  could  indulge  in  his  favor- 
ite nap  without  fear  of  interruption. 

A  certain  simplicity,  not  to  say  homeliness,  of 
manners  prevailed  in  the  house.  It  was  understood 
among  them  that  the  dining-room  was  far  too  gor- 
geous for  anything  but  occasions  of  ceremony. 
Mrs.  Mayne,  indeed,  had  had  the  good  taste  to 
cover  the  satin  couches  with  pretty,  fresh-looking 
cretonne,  and  had  had  arranged  hanging  cupboards 
of  old  china  until  it  had  been  transformed  into  a 
charming  apartment,  notwithstanding  which  the 
library  was  declared  to  be  the  family-room,  where 
the  usual  masculine  assortment  of  litter  could  be 
regarded  with  indulgent  eyes,  and  where  papers  and 
pamphlets  lay  in  delightful  confusion. 

Longmead  was  not  a  pretentious  house ;  it  was  a 


26  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

moderate-sized  residence,  adapted  to  a  gentleman 
of  moderate  means;  but  in  summer  no  place  could 
be  more  charming.  The  broad  gravel  walk  before 
the  house  had  a  background  of  roses;  hundreds  of 
roses  climbed  up  the  railings  or  twined  themselves 
about  the  steps;  a  tiny  miniature  lake,  garnished 
with  water-lilies,  lay  in  the  center  of  the  lawn;  a 
group  of  old  elm- trees  were  beside  it;  behind  the 
house  lay  another  lawn,  and  beyond  were  meadows 
where  a  few  sheep  were  quietly  grazing.  Mr. 
Mayne,  who  found  time  hang  a  little  heavily  on  his 
hands,  prided  himself  a  good  deal  on  his  poultry- 
yard  and  kitchen-garden.  A  great  deal  of  his  spare 
time  was  spent  among  his  favorite  Bantams  and 
Dorkings,  and  in  superintending  his  opinionated 
old  gardener;  on  summer  mornings  he  would  be  out 
among  the  dews  in  his  old  coat  and  planter's  hat, 
weeding  among  the  gooseberry  bushes. 

"It  is  the  early  bird  that  finds  the  worm,"  he 
would  say,  when  Dick  sauntered  into  the  breakfast- 
room  later  on;  for,  in  common  with  the  youth  of 
this  generation,  he  had  a  wholesome  horror  of  early 
rising,  which  he  averred  was  one  of  the  barbarous 
usages  of  the  dark  ages  in  which  his  elders  had  been 
bred. 

"I  never  took  any  interest  in  worms,  sir," 
returned  Dick,  helping  himself  to  a  tempting  rasher 
that  had  just  been  brought  in  hot  for  the  pampered 
youth.  "By  the  bye,  have  you  seen  Darwin's  work 
on  'The  Formation  of  Vegetable  Mold?'  He 
declared  that  'worms  have  played  a  more  important 
part  in  the  history  of  the  world  than  most  people 
would  at  first  suppose;'  they  were  our  earliest  plow- 
men." 

"Oh,  ah!  indeed,  very  interesting!"  observed  his 
father,  dryly;  "but  all  the  same,  I  beg  to  observe, 
no  one  succeeded  in  life  who  was  not  an  early 
riser." 

"A  sweeping  assertion,  and  one  I  might  be 
tempted  to  argue,  if  it  were  not  for  taking  tip  your 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  21 

valuable  time,"  retorted  Dick,  lazily,  but  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye.  "I  know  my  constitution  bet- 
ter than  to  trust  myself  out  before  the  world  is 
properly  aired  and  dried.  I  am  thinking  it  is  less  a 
case  of  worms  than  of  rheumatism  some  early  birds 
will  be  catching ;"  to  which  Mr.  Mayne  merely 
returned  an  ungracious  "Pshaw!"  and  marched  off, 
leaving  his  son  to  enjoy  his  breakfast  in  peace. 

When  Dick  entered  the  library  on  the  evening  in 
question,  Mr.  Mayne's  querulous  observation  as  to 
the  noisiness  of  his  entrance  convinced  him  at  once 
that  his  father  was  in  a  very  bad  humor  indeed,  and 
that  on  this  account  it  behooved  him  to  be  exceed- 
ingly cool. 

So  he  kissed  his  mother,  who  looked  at  him  a 
little  anxiously,  and  then  sat  down  and  turned  out 
her  work-basket,  as  he  had  done  Nan's  cwo  or 
three  hours  ago. 

"You  are  late,  after  all,  Dick,"  she  said,  with  a 
little  reproach  in  her  voice.  It  was  hardly  a  safe 
observation,  to  judge  by  her  husband's  cloudy  coun- 
tenance; but  the  poor  thing  sometimes  felt  her 
evenings  a  trifle  dull  when  Dick  was  away.  Mr. 
Mayne  would  take  up  his  paper,  but  his  eyes  soon 
closed  over  it ;  that  habit  of  seeking  for  the  early 
worm  rather  disposed  him  to  somnolent  evenings, 
during  which  his  wife  knitted  and  felt  herself  nod- 
ding off  out  of  sheer  ennui  and  dullness.  These 
were  not  the  hours  she  had  planned  during  those 
years  of  waiting;  she  had  told  herself  that  Richard 
would  read  to  her  or  talk  to  her  as  she  sat  over  her 
work,  that  they  would  have  so  much  to  say  to  each 
other;  but  now,  as  she  regarded  his  sleeping  coun- 
tenance evening  after  evening,  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  matrimony  was  quite  what  she  expected, 
since  its  bliss  was  so  temperate  and  so  strongly 
infused  with  drowsiness. 

Dick  looked  up  innocently.     "Am  I  late,  mother?' ' 

44 Oh,  of  course  not,"  returned  his  father,  with  a 
sneer;  *'it  is  not  quite  titrfe  to  ring  for  Nicholson  to- 


28  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

bring  our  candles.  Bessie,  I  think  I  should  like 
some  hot  water  to-night;  I  feel  a  little  chilly." 
And  Bessie  rang  the  bell  obediently,  and  without 
any  surprise  in  her  manner.  Mr.  Mayne  often  woke 
up  chilly  from  his  long  nap. 

"Are  you  going  to  have  a  4drap  of  the  cratur?"' 
asked  his  son,  with  alacrity.  "Well,  1  don't  mind 
joining  you,  and  that's  the  truth,  for  we  have  been 
dawdling  about,  and  I  am  a  trifle  chilly  myself." 

"You  know  I  object  to  spirits  for  young  men," 
returned  Mr.  Mayne,  severely;  nevertheless,  he 
pushed  the  whisky  to  Dick  as  soon  as  he  had  mixed 
his  own  glass,  and  his  son  followed  his  example. 

"I  am  quite  of  your  opinion,  father,"  he  observed, 
as  he  regarded  the  handsome  cut-glass  decanter 
somewhat  critically;  "but  there  are  exceptions  to 
every  rule,  and  when  one  is  chilly " 

"I  wish  you  would  make  an  exception  and  stay 
away  from  the  cottage  sometimes,"  returned  Mr. 
Mayne,  with  ill-suppressed  impatience.  "It  was 
all  very  well  when  you  were  all  young  things 
together,  but  it  is  high  time  matters  should  be  dif- 
ferent." 

Dick  executed  a  low  whistle  of  surprise  and  dis- 
may. He  had  no  idea  his  father's  irritability  had 
arisen  fro:_i  any  definite  cause.  What  a  fool  he  had 
been  to  be  so  late!  it  might  lead  to  some  unpleasant 
discussion.  Well,  after  all,  if  his  father  chose  to  be 
so  disagreeable  it  was  not  his  fault;  and  he  was  no 
longer  a  boy,  to  be  chidden,  or  made  to  do  this  or 
that  against  his  own  will. 

Mr.  Mayne  was  sufficiently  shrewd  to  see  that  his 
son  was  somewhat  taken  aback  by  this  sudden 
onslaught,  and  he  was  not  slow  to  press  his  advant- 
age. He  had  wanted  to  give  Dick  a  bit  of  his  mind 
for  some  time,  and  after  all  there  is  no  time  like  the 
present. 

"Yes,  it  was  all  very  well  when  you  were  a  lot  of 
children  together,"  he  continued.  *"Of  course,  it 
fe  hard  on  you,  Dick,  having  no  brothers  and  sisters 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS  29 

to  keep  yon  company:  your  mother  and  I   were 
always  sorry  about  that  for  your  sake." 

"Oh,  don't  mention  it,"  interrupted  Dick;  ff on 
the  whole,  I  am  best  pleased  as  it  is." 

"But  it  would  have  been  better  for  you/'  re- 
turned his  father,  sharply ;  "we  should  not  have  had 
all  this  fooling  and  humbug  if  you  had  had  sisters 
of  your  own.9' 

"Fooling  and  humbug!'  repeated  Dick,  hotly; 
"I  confess,  sir,  I  don't  quite  understand  to  what 
you  are  referring. "  He  was  growing  very  angry, 
but  his  mother  flung  herself  between  the  combatants. 

"Don't  my  boy,  don't;  you  must  not  answer  your 
father  in  that  way.  Richard,  what  makes  you  so 
hard  on  him  to-night?  It  must  be  the  gout,  Dick 
we  had  better  send  for  Doctor  Weatherby  in  ths 
morning,"  continued  the  anxious  woman,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  "for  your  dear  father  would  never 
be  so  cross  to  you  as  this  unless  he  were  going  to 
be  ill." 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!  Doctor  Weatherby  indeed!" 
but  his  voice  was  less  wrathful.  "What  is  it  but 
fooling,  I  should  like  to  know,  for  Dick  to  be  daun- 
dering  his  time  away  with  a  parcel  of  girls  as  he 
does  with  these  Challoners!" 

"I  suppose  you  were  never  a  young  man  your- 
self, sir." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  was,  my  boy,"  and  the  corners  of  Mr. 
Mayne's  mouth  relaxed  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to 
keep  serious.  "I  fell  in  love  with  your  mother, 
and  stuck  to  her  for  seven  or  eight  years ;  but  I  did 
not  make  believe  that  I  was  brother  to  a  lot  of 
pretty  girls,  and  waste  all  my  time  dancing  attend- 
ance on  them  and  running  about  on  their  errands." 

"You  ought  to  have  taken  a  lesson  out  of  my 
book,"  returned  his  son,  readily. 

"No;  I  ought  to  have  done  no  such  thing,  sir!" 
shouted  back  Mr.  Mayne,  waxing  irate  again.  It 
could  not  be  denied  that  Dick  could  be  excessively 
provoking  when  he  liked.  "Don't  I  tell  you  it  is 


SO  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 

time  this  sort  of  thing  was  stopped?  Why,  people 
will  begin  to  talk,  and  say  you  are  making  up  to 
one  of  them;  it  is  not  right,  Dick;  it  is  not,  indeed," 
with  an  attempted  pathos. 

"I  don't  care  that  for  what  people  say/'  returned 
the  young  fellow,  snapping  his  finger.  "Is  it  not  a 
pity  you  are  saying  all  this  to  me  just  when  I  am 
going  away  and  am  not  likely  to  see  any  of  them 
for  the  next  six  months?  You  are  very  hard  on  me 
to-night,  father;  and  I  can't  think  what  it  is  all 
about." 

Mr.  Mayne  was  silent  a  moment,  revolving  his 
son's  pathetic  speech.  It  was  true  he  had  been 
cross,  and  had  said  more  than  he  had  meant  to  say. 
He  had  not  wished  to  hinder  Dick's  innocent  enjoy- 
ments; but  if  he  were  unknowingly  picking  flowers 
at  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  was  it  not  his  duty  as  a 
father  to  warn  him? 

"I  think  I  have  been  a  little  hard,  my  lad,"  he 
said,  candidly;  "but  there,  you  and  your  mother 
know  my  bark  is  worse  than  my  bite.  I  only 
wanted  to  warn  you;  that's  all,  Dick," 

44 Warn  me!  against  what,  sir?"  asked  the  young 
man,  quickly. 

"Against  falling  in  love,  really,  with  one  of  the 
Challoner  girls!"  returned  Mr.  Mayne,  trying  to 
evade  the  fire  of  Dick's  eyes,  and  blustering  a  little 
in  consequence.  "Why,  they  have  not  a  penny,  one 
of  them ;  and,  if  report  be  true,  Mrs.  Challoner's 
money  is  very  shakily  invested.  Paine  told  me  so 
the  other  day.  He  said  he  should  never  wonder  if 
a  sudden  crash  came  any  minute. " 

"Is  this  true,  Richard?" 

"Paine  declares  it  is;  and  think  of  Dick  saddling 
himself  with  the  support  of  a  whole  family!" 

"It  strikes  me  you  are  taking  things  very  much 
for  granted,"  returned  his  son,  trying  to  speak 
coolly,  but  flushing  like  a  girl  over  his  words.  "I 
think  you  might  wait,  father,  until  I  proposed 
bringing  you  home  a  daughter-in-law." 


HOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  SI 

"I  am  only  warning  you,  Dick,  that  the  Challoner 
connection  would  be  distasteful  to  me,"  replied  Mr. 
Mayne,  feeling  that  he  had  gone  a  little  too  far. 
44 If  you  had  brothers  and  sisters  it  would  not  matter 
half  so  much ;  but  it  would  be  too  hard  if  my  only 
son  were  to  cross  my  wishes, " 

44Should  you  disinherit  me,  father?*1  observed 
Dick,  cheerfully.  He  had  recovered  his  coolness 
and  pluck,  and  began  to  feel  more  equal  to  the 
occasion. 

44 We  should  see  about  that;  but  I  hardly  think  it 
would  be  for  your  advantage  to  oppose  me  too 
much,"  returned  his  father,  with  an  ominous  pucker 
of  his  eyebrows,  which  warned  Dick  that  it  was 
hardly  safe  to  chaff  the  old  ooy  too  much  to-night 

44 1  think  I- will  go  to  bed,  Richard,'*  put  in  poor 
Mrs.  Mayne.  She  had  wisely  forborne  to  mix  in  the 
discussion,  fearing  that  it  would  bring  upon  her  the 
vials  of  her  husband's  wrath.  Mr.  Mayne  was  as 
choleric  as  a  Welshman,  and  had  a  reserve  force 
of  sharp  cynical  sayings  that  were  somewhat  hard 
to  bear.  He  was  disposed  to  turn  upon  her  on  such 
occasions,  and  to  accuse  her  of  spoiling  Dick  and 
taking  his  part  against  his  father;  between  the  two 
Richards  she  sometimes  had  a  very  bad  time  indeed. 

Dick  lighted  his  mother's  candle,  and  bade  her 
good-night;  but  all  the  same  she  knew  she  had  not 
seen  the  last  of  him.  A  few  minutes  afterward 
there  was  a  hasty  tap  at  the  bedroom  door,  and  Dick 
thrust  in  his  head. 

44 Come  in,  my  dear;  I  have  been  expecting  you," 
she  said,  with  a  pleased  smile.  He  always  came  to 
her  when  he  was  ruffled  or  put  out,  and  brought 
her  all  his  grievances;  surely  this  was  the  very 
meaning  and  essence  of  her  motherhood — this  heal- 
ing and  comfort  that  lay  in  her  power  of  sympathy. 

When  he  was  a  little  fellow,  had  she  not  extracted 
many  a  thorn  and  bound  up  many  a  cut  finger?  and 
now  he  was  a  man,  would  she  be  less  helpful  to  him 
when  he  wanted  a  different  kind  of  comfort? 


38  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 

"Come  in,  my  son,"  she  said,  beckoning  him  to 
the  low  chair  beside  her,  into  which  Dick  threw 
himself  with  a  petulant  yawn. 

"Mother,  what  made  the  pater  so  hard  on  me 
to-night?  He  cut  up  as  rough  as  though  I  had 
committed  some  crime." 

"1  don't  think  he  is  quite  himself  to-night," 
returned  Mrs.  Mayne,  in  her  soft,  motherly  voice. 
*'I  fancy  he  misses  you,  Dick,  and  is  half  jealous 
of  the  Challoners  for  monopolizing  you.  You  are 
all  we  have,  that's  where  it  is,"  she  finished;  strok- 
ing the  sandy  head  with  her  plump  hand;  but  Dick 
jerked  away  from  her  with  a  little  impatience. 

"I  think  it  rather  hard  that  a  fellow  is  to  be 
bullied  for  doing  nothing  at  all,"  replied  Dick,  with 
a  touch  of  sullenness.  "When  the  pater  is  in  this 
humor  it  is  no  use  saying  anything  to  him ;  but  you 
may  as  well  tell  him,  mother,  that  I  mean  to  choose 
my  wife  for  myself. ' ' 

**Oh,  my  dear,  I  dare  not  tell  him  anything  of  the 
kind,"  returned  Mrs.  Mayne,  in  an  alarmed  voic^ » 
and  then,   as  she   glanced  at  her  son,  her  terror 
merged  into  amusement.     There  was  somethin 
absurdly    boyish    in    Dick's  appearance,    sucr 
ludicrous   contrast  between  the  manliness  o+ 
speech  and  his  smooth  cheek;  the  little  friu 
hirsute  ornament,  of  which  Dick  was  so  prouv 
hardly  visible  in  the  dim  light;  his  youthful  fi$. 
more  clumsy  than   graceful,   had  an  unfledged 
about  it;  nevertheless,   the  boldness  of  his  tfsw 
took  away  her  breath. 

"Every  man  has  a  right  to  his  own  choict 
a  matter,"  continued  Dick,  loftily.      "Yo 
well   tell  him,   mother,   that  I  intend  to 
own  wife." 

"My  dear,   I  dare  not  for  worlds — " 
and   then  she   stopped,    and   laid  her  h<* 
shoulder.      "Why  do  you  say  this  to  me 
plenty  of  time,"  she  went  on,  hastily; 
your  father  says,  and  I  think  he  is  rig*  t. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  33 

too  young  for  this  sort  ot  thing  yet.  You  must  see 
the  world,  you  must  look  about  you;  you  must  have 
plenty  of  choice,1*  continued  the  anxious  mother. 
4 1  shall  be  hard  to  please,  Dick,  for  I  shall  think 
no  one  good  enough  for  my  boy;  that  is  the  worst 
of  having  only  one,  and  he  the  best  son  that  ever 
lived,'  finished  Mrs,  Mayne,  with  maternal  pride  in 
her  voice. 

Dick  took  this  effusion  very  coolly.  He  was  quite 
used  to  all  this  sort  of  worship,  he  did  not  think 
badly  of  himself;  he  was  not  particularly  humble- 
minded  or  given  to  troublesome  introspection ;  on 
the  whole,  he  though  himself  a  good  fellow,  and 
was  not  at  all  surprised  that  people  appreciated  him. 
**  There  are  such  a  lot  of  cads  in  the  world,  one  is 
always  glad  to  fall  in  with  a  different  sort,"  ho 
would  say  to  himself.  He  was  quite  of  his  mother's 
opiuion,  that  an  honest,  Godfearing  young  fellow, 
who  spoke  the  truth  and  shamed  the  devil,  who  had 
no  special  vices  but  a  dislike  for  early  rising,  who 
bad  tolerable  brains,  and  more  than  his  share  of 
muscle,  who  was  in  the  Oxford  eleven,  and  who  had 
_^^ned  his  blue  ribbon — that  such  a  one  might  be 
B  risidered  to  set  an  example  to  his  generation. 

Then  his  mother  told  him  she  would  be  hard  to 

;e,  Dick  looked  a  little  wicked,  and  thought  of 

v  .but   the   name  was  not  mentioned  between 

'.if.      Nevertheless,    Mrs,    Mayne  felt  with  uner- 

.ag  maternal  instinct  that,  in  spite  of  his  youth, 

'   s  choice  was  made,  and  sighed  to  herself  at  the 

bt  of  the  evil  days  that  were  to  come. 

woman,   she  was  to  have  little  peace  that 

.j&.\,  ,i    irHardly  had  Dick  finished  his  grumble  and 

^feefi-v  away,    before   her   husband's    step   was 

.is  dressing  room. 

'  t  /'  he  called  out  to  her,  "why  do  you  allow 

vto  keep  you  up  so  late  at  night?      Do  you 

c   it  is  eleven,    and  you  are  still   fully 

i*te,  Richard?*1 


34  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  he  snapped;  "but  that  is  the 
care  you  take  of  your  health;  and  the  way  you 
cosset  and  spoil  that  boy  is  dreadful." 

"I  don't  think  Dick  is  easily  spoiled,"  plucking 
up  a  little  spirit  to  answer  him. 

"That  shows  how  little  you  understand  boys," 
returned  her  husband.  Evidently  the  whisky, 
though  it  was  the  best  Glenlivet,  had  failed  to 
mollify  him.  It  might  be  dangerous  to  go  too  far 
with  Dick,  for  he  had  a  way  of  turning  around  and 
defending  himself  that  somewhat  embarrassed  Mr. 
Mayne,  but  with  his  wife  there  would  be  no  such 
danger.  He  would  dominate  her  bv  his  sharp 
speeches,  and  reduce  her  to  abject  submission  in  a 
moment,  for  Bessie  was  the  meekest  of  wives. 
"Take  care  how  you  side  with  him,"  he  continued, 
in  a  threatening  voice.  "He  thinks  that  I  am  not 
serious  in  what  I  said  just  now,  and  is  for  carrying 
it  off  with  a  high  hand;  but  I  tell  you,  and  you  had 
better  tell  him,  that  I  was  never  more  in  earnest  in 
my  life.  I  won't  have  one  of  those  Challoner  girls 
for  a  daughter-in-law!" 

"Oh,  Richard!  and  Nan  is  such  a  sweet  girl!" 
returned  his  wife,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  was 
awfully  jealous  of  Nan,  at  times  she  almost  dreaded 
her;  but  for  her  boy's  sake  she  would  have  taken 
her  now  to  her  heart  and  defied  even  her  formidable 
husband.  "She  is  such  a  pretty  creature,  too;  no 
one  can  help  loving  her, " 

"Pshaw!"  returned  her  husband;  "pretty  crea- 
ture indeed!  that  is  just  your  soft-hearted  nonsense. 
Phillis  is  ten  times  prettier,  and  has  heaps  more 
sense.  Why  couldn't  Dick  have  taken  a  fancy  to 
her?" 

"Because  I  am  afraid  he  cares  for  the  other 
one,"  returned  Mrs.  Mayne,  sadly.  She  had  no 
wish  to  deceive  her  husband,  and  she  knew  that  th& 
golden  apple  had  rolled  to  Nan's  feet. 

"Stuff  and  rubbish!"  he  responded,  wrathfully. 
"What  is  a  boy  of  his  age  to  know  about  such 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  35 

things?  Tell  him  from  me  to  put  this  nonsense  out 
of  his  head  for  the  next  year  or  two;  there  is  plenty 
of  time  to  look  out  for  a  wife  after  that.  But  I 
won't  have  him  making  up  his  mind  until  he  has 
left  Oxford.'*  And  Mrs.  Mayne,  knowing  that  her 
husband  had  spoken  his  last  word,  thankfully  with- 
drew, feeling  that  in  her  heart  she  secretly  agreed 
with  him. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

DICK'S  FETE. 

As  Mr.  Mayne's  wrath  soon  evaporated,  and  Dick 
was  a  sweet-tempered  fellow  and  bore  no  malice, 
this  slight  altercation  produced  no  lasting  effect, 
except  that  Dick,  for  the  next  few  days,  hurried 
home  to  his  dinner;  talked  a  good  deal  about  Swit- 
zerland, and  never  mentioned  a  Challoner  in  his 
father's  hearing. 

44  We  must  keep  him  in  a  good  temper  for  the 
25th,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  with  a  touch  of  the 
Mayne  shrewdness. 

That  day  was  rapidly  approaching,  and  all  sorts 
of  festive  preparations  were  going  on  at  Long- 
mead.  Dick  himself  gravely  superintended  the 
rolling  of  the  tennis-ground  in  the  large  meadow, 
and  daubed  himself  plentifully  with  lime  in  marking 
out  the  courts,  while  Mr.  Mayne  stood  with  his 
hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  shooting-coat  watching 
him.  The  two  were  a  great  deal  together  just 
then.  Dick  rather  stuck  to  his  father  during  one  or 
two  mornings;  the  wily  young  fellow  knew  that 
Nan  was  closeted  with  his  mother,  helping  her  with 
all  sorts  of  feminine  arrangements,  and  he  was  de- 
termined to  keep  them  apart.  Nan  wondered  a 
great  deal  why  Dick  did  not  come  to  interrupt  or 
tease  them  as 'usual,  and  grew  a  little  absent  over 
Mrs.  Mayne's  rambling1  explanations.  When  the 


36  N01  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

gong  sounded  no  one  asked  her  to  stay  to  luncheon. 
Mrs.  Mayne  saw  her  put  on  her  hat  without  uttering 
a  single  protest. 

44 It  is  so  good  of  you  to  help  me,  dear,"  she  said, 
Diking  the  girl  into  her  embrace.  "You  are  quite 
sure  people  won't  expect  a  sit-down  supper?" 

''Oh,  no;  the  buffet  system  is  best,"  returned 
Nan,  decidedly.  "Half  the  people  will  not  stay, 
and  you  need  not  make  a  fuss  about  the  rest.  It  is 
an  afternoon  party,  you  must  remember  that;  only 
people  who  are  very  intimate  will  remain  for  the 
fun  of  the  thing.  Tell  Nicholson  to  have  plenty  of 
ices  going;  people  care  most  for  that  sort  of  re- 
freshment." 

44 Yes,  dear;  I  will  be  sure  to  remember,"  re- 
turned her  friend,  meekly. 

She  was  very  grateful  to  Nan  for  these  hints,  and 
was  quite  willing  to  follow  her  guidance  in  all  such 
matters;  but  when  Nan  proposed  once  sending  for 
Dick  to  ask  his  opinion  on  some  knotty  point  that 
baffled  their  women's  wits,  Mrs.  Mayne  demurred. 

4 'It  is  a  pity  to  disturb  him;  he  is  with  his 
father;  and  we  can  settle  these  things  by  our- 
selves," she  replied,  not  venturing  to  mar  the  pres- 
ent tranquillity  by  sending  such  a  message  to  Dick. 
Mr.  Mayne  would  have  accompanied  his  son,  and 
the  consultation  would  hardly  have  ended  peace- 
ably. <4Men  have  their  hobbies.  We  had  better 
settle  all  this  together,  you  and  I,"  she  said,  hurri- 
edly. 

Nan  merely  nodded,  and  cut  the  Gordian  knot 
through  somewhat  ruthlessly;  but  on  that  occasion 
she  put  on  her  hat  before  the  gong  sounded. 

44You  must  be  very  busy,  for  one  never  has  a 
glimpse  of  you  in  the  morning,"  she  could  not  help 
saying  to  Dick,  as  he  came  in  that  afternoon  to 
escort  them  to  Fitzroy  Lodge. 

"Well,  yes,  I  am  tolerably  busy,"  he  drawled. 
44 1  am  never  free  to  do  things  in  the  afternoon" — a 
fact  that  Nan  felt  was  unanswerable. 


NOT  LIKE  OTH£R  GIRLS.  37 

When  Nan  and  her  sisters  woke  on  the  morning 
of  the  memorable  day,  the  bright  sunshine  of  a 
cloudless  June  day  set  all  their  fears  at  rest.  If  the 
sun  smiled  on  Dick's  fete,  all  would  be  well.  If 
Nan's  devotions  were  longer  than  usual  that  morn- 
ing, no  one  was  the  wiser;  if  she  added  a  little 
clause,  calling  down  a  blessing  on  a  certain  head, 
no  one  would  be  the  poorer  for  such  pure  prayers; 
indeed,  it  were  well  if  many  such  were  uttered  for 
the  young  men  who  go  forth  morning  after  morning 
into  the  temptations  of  life. 

Such  prayers  might  stretch  like  an  invisible 
shield  before  the  countless  foes  that  environ  such 
a  one;  fiery  darts  may  be  caught  upon  it;  a  deadly 
thrust  may  be  turned  away.  What  if  the  blessing 
would  never  reach  the  ear  of  the  loved  one,  who 
goes  out  unconscious  of  sympathy?  His  guardian 
angel  has  heard  it,  and  perchance  it  has  reached 
the  very  gate  of  heaven. 

Nan  came  down,  smiling  and  radiant,  to  find  Dick 
waiting  for  her  in  the  veranda  and  chattering  to 
Phillis  and  Dulce. 

44 Why,  Dick!*'  she  cried,  blushing  with  surprise 
and  pleasure,  "to  think  of  your  being  here  on  your 
birthday  morning!" 

"I  only  came  to  thank  you  and  the  girls  for  your 
lovely  presents/'  returned  Dick,  becoming  rather 
incoherent  and  red  at  the  sight  of  Nan's  blush.  "It 
was  so  awfully  good  of  you  all  to  work  all  those 
things  for  me;"  for  Nan  had  taken  secret  measure- 
ments in  Dick's  room,  and  had  embroidered  a  most 
exquisite  mantel-piece  valance,  and  Phillis  and 
Dulce  had  worked  the  corners  of  a  green  cloth  with 
wonderful  daffodils  and  bulrushes  to  cover  Dick's 
shabby  table;  and  Dick's  soul  had  been  filled  with 
ravishment  at  the  sight  of  these  gifts. 

Nan  would  not  let  him  go  on,  but  all  the  same 
his  happy  face  delighted  her. 

"No;  don't  thank  us,  we  liked  doing  it,"  she  re 
turned,  rather  coolly.  "You  know  we  owed  you 


38  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

something  after  all  your  splendid  hospitality,  and 
work  is  never  any  trouble  to  us." 

"But  I  never  saw  anything  I  liked  better," 
blurted  out  Dick.  "All  the  fellows  will  be  jealous 
of  me.  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  Hamilton  will 
say.  It  was  awfully  good  of  you,  Nan,  and  so  it 
was  of  the  others;  and  if  I  don't  make  it  up  to  you 
somehow,  my  name  is  not  Dick;"  and  he  smiled 
round  at  them  as  he  spoke.  "Fancy  putting  in  all 
those  stitches  for  me!"  he  thought  to  himself. 

"We  are  so  glad  you  are  pleased,"  returned  Nan, 
with  one  of  her  sweet,  straightforward  looks; 
"that  is  what  wre  wanted  to  give  you — a  little  sur- 
prise on  your  birthday.  Now  you  must  tell  us 
about  your  other  presents."  And  Dick,  nothing 
loath,  launched  into  eloquent  descriptions  of  the 
silver-fitted  dressing-case  from  his  mother,  and  the 
gun  and  thoroughbred  colly  that  had  been  his 
father's  gifts. 

"He  is  such  a  fine  fellow;  I  must  show  him  to  you 
this  afternoon,"  went  on  Dick,  eagerly.  "His 
name  is  Vigo,  and  he  has  such  a  superb  head.  Was 
it  not  good  of  the  pater?  He  knew  I  had  a  fancy 
for  a  colly,  and  he  has  been  in  treaty  for  one  ever 
so  long.  Is  he  not  a  dear  old  boy?"  cried  Dick, 
rapturously.  But  he  did  not  tell  his  friends  of  the 
crisp  bundle  of  bank-notes  with  which  Mr.  Mayne 
had  enriched  his  son;  only,  as  Dick  fingered  them 
lovingly,  he  wondered  what  pretty  foreign  thing  he 
could  buy  for  Nan,  and  whether  her  mother  would 
allow  her  to  accept  it. 

After  this  Nan  dismissed  him  somewhat  perempt- 
orily; he  must  go  back  to  his  breakfast,  and  allow 
them  to  do  the  same. 

"Mind  you  come  early,"  were  Dick's  last  words, 
as  he  waved  his  straw  hat  to  them.  How  often  the 
memory  of  that  morning  recurred  to  him  as  he  stood 
solitary  and  thoughtful,  contemplating  some  grand 
stretch  of  Alpine  scenery! 

The  snow-peaks  and  blue  glaciers  melted  away 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  39 

before  his  eyes;  in  their  place  rose  unbidden  a  pict- 
ure framed  in  green  trellis-work,  over  which  roses 
were  climbing. 

Fresh  girlish  faces  smiled  back  at  him;  the  bright- 
est and  kindest  of  glances  met  his.  "Good-bye, 
Dick;  a  thousand  good  wishes  from  us  all.'*  A  slim 
white  hand  had  gathered  a  rosebud  for  him ;  how 
proudly  he  had  worn  it  all  that  day!  Stop,  he  had 
it  still;  it  lay  all  crushed  and  withered  in  his  pocket- 
book  He  had  written  the  date  under  it;  one  day 
he  meant  to  show  it  to  her.  Oh,  foolish  days  of 
youth,  so  prodigal  of  minor  memories  and  small 
deeds  of  gifts,  when  a  withered  flower  can  hold  the 
rarest  scent,  and  in  a  crumpled  rose  leaf  there  is  a 
whole  volume  of  ecstatic  meaning!  Oh,  golden 
days  of  youth,  never  to  be  surpassed! 

Never  in  the  memory  of  Oldfield  had  there  been 
a  more  delicious  day. 

The  sky  was  cloudless,  long  purple  shadows  lay 
tinder  the  elm-trees;  a  concert  of  bird-music 
sounded  from  the  shrubbery;  in  the  green  meadows 
flags  were  waving,  tent  draperies  fluttering;  the 
house  doors  stood  open,  showing  a  flower-decked 
hall  and  vista  of  cool  shadowy  rooms. 

Dick,  looking  bright  and  trim,  wandered  rest- 
lessl}  over  the  place,  and  Mr.  Mayne  fidgeted  after 
him;  while  Mrs.  Mayne  sat  fanning  herself  under 
the  elm-trees  and  hoping  the  band  would  not  be 
late. 

No,  there  it  was  turning  in  now  at  the  stable  en- 
trance, and  playing-  "The  girl  I  left  behind  me," 
and  there  at  the  same  moment  was  Nan  coming  up 
the  lawn  in  her  white  gown,  closely  followed  by 
her  mother  and  sisters. 

"Are  we  the  first?"  she  asked,  as  Dick  darted 
across  the  grass  to  meet  her.  "That  is  nice;  we 
shall  see  all  the  people  arrive.  How  inspiriting 
that  music  is  and  how  beautiful  everything  looks!" 

"It  is  awfully  jolly  of  you  to  be  the  first," 
whispered  Dick;  *" and  how  nice  you  look,  Nan!  \ou 


40  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

always  do,  you  know,  but  to-day  you  are  firsi-rate. 
Is  this  a  new  gown?"  casting  an  approving  look 
over  Nan's  costume,  which  was  certainly  very  fresh 
and  pretty. 

44 Oh,  yes;  we  have  all  new  dresses  in  your  honor, 
and  we  made  them  ourselves,"  returned  Nan,  care- 
lessly. 4< Mother  has  got  her  old  silk,  but  for  her  it 
does  not  so  much  matter;  at  least  that  is  what  she 
says." 

"And  she  is  quite  right.  'She  is  always  real 
splendid,  as  the  Yankees  say,  whatever  she  wears," 
returned  Dick,  wishing  secretly  that  his  mother  in 
her  new  satin  dress  looked  half  so  well  as  Mrs. 
Challoner  in  her  old  one.  But  it  was  no  use.  Mrs. 
Mayne  never  set  off  her  handsome  dresses;  with 
her  flushed,  good-natured  face  and  homely  ways,  sLe 
showed  to  marked  disadvantage  beside  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner's  faded  beauty.  Mrs.  Challoner's  gown  might 
be  antique,  but  nothing  could  surpass  the  quiet 
grace  of  her  carriage,  or  the  low  pleasant  modula- 
tions of  her  voice.  Her  figure  was  almost  as  slim  as 
her  daughters',  and  she  could  easily  have  passed  for 
their  elder  sister. 

Lady  Fitzroy,  who  was  a  Burgoyne  by  birth — and 
every  one  knows  that  for  haughtiness  and  a  certain 
exclusive  intoleration  none  could  match  the  Bur- 
goynes — always  distinguished  Mrs.  Challoner  by 
the  marked  attention  she  paid  her. 

44A  very  lady-like  woman,  Percival.  Certainly 
the  most  lady-like  person  in  the  neighborhood,"  she 
would  say  to  her  husband,  who  was  not  quite  so 
exclusive,  and  always  made  himself  pleasant  to  his 
neighbors;  and  she  would  ask  very  graciously  after 
her  brother-in-law,  Sir  Francis  Challoner.  44He  is 
still  in  India,  I  suppose?" 

4'Oh,  yes;  he  is  still  in  India,"  Mrs.  Challoner 
would  reply,  rather  curtly.  She  had  not  the  faintest 
interest  in  her  husband's  brother,  whom  she  had 
never  seen  more  than  twice  in  her  life,  and  who  was 
understoodto.be  small  credit  to  his  family.  The 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  41 

aforesaid  Sir  Francis  Challoner  had  been  the  poor- 
est of  English  baronets.  His  property  had  dwindled 
down  until  it  consisted  simply  of  a  half-ruined  resi- 
dence in  the  north  of  England. 

In  his  young  days  Sir  Francis  had  been  a  prodi- 
gal, and,  liks  the  prodigal  in  the  parable,  he  had 
betaken  himself  into  far  countries,  not  to  waste  his 
substance,  for  he  had  none,  but  if  possible  to  glean 
some  of  the  Eastern  riches. 

Whether  he  had  been  successful  or  not,  Mrs. 
Challoner  hardly  knew.  That  he  had  married  and 
settled  in  Calcutta — that  he  had  a  son  named  Harry 
who  had  once  written  to  her  in  round-hand  and  sub- 
scribed himself  as  her  affectionate  nephew,  Henry 
Ford  Challoner — this  she  knew;  but  what  manner 
of  person  Lady  Challoner  might  be,  or  what  sort  of 
home  her  brother-in-law  had  made  for  himself, 
those  points  were  enveloped  in  mystery. 

*4I  suppose  she  is  so  civil  to  me  because  of  your 
uncle  Francis,"  she  used  to  say  to  her  girls,  which 
was  attributing  to  Lady  Fitzroy  a  degree  of  snob- 
biness  that  was  quite  undeserved.  Lady  Fitzroy 
really  liked  Mrs.  Challoner,  and  found  intercourse 
with  her  very  pleasant  and  refreshing.  When  one 
is  perfectly  well-bred  there  is  a  subtile  charm  in 
harmony  of  voice  and  manner.  Mrs.  Challoner 
might  have  dressed  in  rags  if  she  liked,  and  the 
young  countess  would  still  have  aired  her  choicest 
smiles  for  her. 

It  was  lucky  Nan  had  those  few  words  from  Dick, 
for  they  fell  apart  after  this,  and  were  separated  the 
greater  portion  of  the  afternoon. 

Carriages  began  to  drive  in  at  the  gates;  groups 
of  well-dressed  people  thronged  the  lawn,  and  were 
drafted  off  to  the  field  where  the  band  was  playing. 

Nan  and  her  sisters  had  their  work  cut  out  for 
them;  they  knew  everybody,  and  they  were  free 
of  the  house.  It  was  they  who  helped  Dick  arrange 
the  tennis-matches,  who  pointed  out  to  the  young 
men  of  the  party  which  was  the  tea-tent,  and  where 


42  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 

the  ices  and  claret-cup  were  to  be  found.  They 
marshaled  the  elder  ladies  into  pleasant  nooks, 
where  they  could  be  sheltered  from  the  sun  and  see 
all  that  was  going  on. 

"No,  thank  you;  I  shall  not  play  tennis  this 
afternoon,  there  are  too  many  of  us,  and  I  am  so 
busy,"  Nan  said,  dismissing  one  after  another  who 
came  up  to  her.  "If  you  want  a  partner,  there  is 
Canie  Paine,  who  is  dying  for  a  game.  ' 

Dick,  who  was  passing  with  Lady  Fitzroy  on  his 
arm,  whom  he  was  hurrying  somewhat  unceremoni- 
ously across  the  field,  threw  Her  a  grateful  glance 
as  she  went  by. 

"What  a  sweet-looking  girl  that  is!"  said  Lady 
Fitzroy,  graciously,  as  she  panted  a  little  over  her 
exertion. 

"Who?  Nan?  Yes;  isn't  she  a  brick?  and  the 
others,  too?"  for  Phillis  and  Dulce  were  just  as  self- 
denying  in  their  labo:s.  As  Mr.  Mayne  said  after- 
ward, "They  were  just  everywhere,  those  Challcn- 
ers,  like  a  hive  of  swarming  bees,"  which,  as  it  was 
said  in  a  grumbling  tone,  was  ungrateful,  to  say 
the  least  of  it 

Dick  worked  like  a  horse,  too;  he  looked  all  the 
afternoon  as  tnough  he  had  a  tough  job  in  hand 
that  required  the  utmost  gravity  and  dispatch.  He 
was  forever  hurrying  elderly  ladies  across  the  field 
toward  the  refreshment  tent,  where  he  deposited 
them,  panting  and  heated,  in  all  sorts  of  corners. 

"Are  you  quite  comfortable?  May  I  leave  you 
now?  or  shall  I  wait  and  take  you  back  again?" 
asked  Dick,  who  was  eager  for  a  fresh  convoy 

"No,  no:  I  would  rather  stay  here  a  little," 
returned  Mrs.  Paine,  who  was  not  desirous  of 
another  promenade  with  the  hero  of  the  day.  "Go 
and  fetch  some  one  else,  Dick;  1  am  very  well  off 
where  I  am,'  exchanging  an  amused  glance  with 
one  of  her  friends,  as  Dick,  hot  and  breathless, 
started  off  on  another  voyage  of  discovery. 

Dick's  behavior  had  been  simply  perfect  all  the 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  43 

afternoon  in  his  father's  eyes,  but  later  on,  when 
the  band  struck  up  a  set  of  quadrilles,  he  committed 
his  first  solecism  in  manners;  instead  of  asking 
Lady  Fitzroy  to  dance  with  him,  he  hurried  after 
Nan. 

"This  is  our  dance;  come  along,"  he  said,  taking 
her  unwilling  hand;  but  she  held  back  a  moment. 

44 Are  you  sure?  Is  there  not  some  one  else  you 
ought  to  choose?  Lady  Fitzroy,  for  example?'1 
questioned  Nan,  with  admirable  forethought. 

44Bother  Lady  Fitzroy!"  exclaimed  Dick,  under 
his  breath;  he  had  had  quite  enough  of  that  lady. 
"Why  are  you  holding  back,  Nan,  in  this  fashion?" 
a  cloud  coming  over  his  face.  "  Haven't  you  prom- 
ised weeks  ago  to  give  me  the  first  dance?"  And 
Nan,  seeing  the  cloud  on  his  face,  yielded  without 
another  word.  Dick  always  managed  to  have  his 
own  way  somehow. 

44 Dick,  Dick!"  cried  his  father  in  a  voice  of 
agony,  as  they  passed  him. 

44 All  in  good  time;  coining  presently,"  returned 
the  scapegrace,  cheerfully.  "Now,  Nan,  this  is 
our  place.  We  will  have  Hamilton  and  Dulce  for 
our  vis-a-vis.  What  a  jolly  day!  and  isn't  this 
first-rate?"  exclaimed  Dick,  rubbing  his  hands,  and 
feeling  as  though  he  were  only  just  beginning  to 
enjoy  himself. 

Nan  was  not  quite  so  easy  in  her  mind. 

"Your  father  does  not  look  very  pleased.  lam 
afraid,  after  all,  you  ought  to  have  asked  Lady 
Fitzroy,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  but  Dick  turned 
a  deaf  ear.  He  showed  her  the  rose  in  his  button- 
hole, and  when  Nan  told  him  it  was  withered,  and 
wanted  him  to  take  it  out,  he  gave  her  a  reproachful 
look  that  made  her  blush. 

They  were  very  happy  after  this;  and,  when  the 
dance  was  over,  Dick  gave  her  his  arm,  and  carried 
her  off  to  see  Vigo,  who  was  howling  a  deep, 
mournful  bass  at  the  back  of  the  gardener's  cottage. 

Nan  made  friends  with  him,  and  stroked  his  black 


44  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

curly  head,  and  looked  lovingly  into  his  deep, 
melancholy  eyes;  and  then,  as  her  flowers  were 
fading,  they  strolled  off  into  the  conservatory, 
where  Dick  gathered  her  a  fresh  bouquet  and  then 
sat  down  and  watched  her  arrange  it. 

4 'What  clever  fingers  you  have  got!"  he  said, 
looking  at  them  admiringly,  as  Nan  sorted  the 
flowers  in  her  lap;  and  at  this  unlucky  moment  they 
were  discovered  by  Mr.  Mayne,  who  was  bringing 
Lady  Fitzroy  to  see  a  favorite  orchid. 

He  shot  an  angry,  suspicious  glance  at  his  son. 

"Dick,  your  mother  is  asking  for  you,"  he  said, 
rather  abruptly ;  but  Dick  growled  something  in  an 
undertone,  and  did  not  move. 

Nan  gave  him  a  frightened  nudge.  Why  was  he 
so  imprudent? 

44 1  cannot  move,  because  of  my  flowers,  do  go, 
Dick.  You  must  indeed,  if  your  mother  wants 
you;"  and  she  looked  at  him  in  such  a  pleading  way 
that  Dick  dared  not  refuse.  It  was  just  like  his 
father  to  come  and  disturb  his  first  happy  moments 
and  to  order  him  off  to  go  and  do  something  disa- 
greeable. He  had  almost  a  mind  to  brave  it  out, 
and  remain  in  spite  of  him ;  but  there  was  Nan  look- 
ing at  him  in  a  frightened,  imploring  way. 

4iOh,  do  go,  Dick,"  giving  him  a  little  impatient 
push  in  her  agitation;  *4if  your  mother  wants  you, 
you  must  not  keep  her  waiting. "  But  Nan  in  her 
heart  knew,  as  Dick  did  in  his,  that  the  message 
was  only  a  subterfuge  to  separate  them. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"l    AM    QUITE    SURE    OF    HIM." 

Nan  would  willingly  have  effected  her  escape, 
too,  but  she  was  detained  by  the  flowers  that  Dick 
had  tossed  so  lightly  into  her  lap  She  was  rather 
dismayed  at  her  position,  and  her  fingers  trembled  a 
little  "over  their  work.  There  was  a  breath — a 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  45 

sudden  entering  current — of  antagonism  and  preju- 
dice that  daunted  her.  Lady  Fitzroy  cast  an 
admiring  look  at  the  girl  as  she  sat  there  with  glow- 
ing cheeks  and  downcast  lids. 

"How  pretty  she  is!"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  as 
Mr.  Mayne  pointed  out  his  favorite  orchid.  "She  is 
like  her  mother,  there  is  just  the  same  quiet  style, 
only  I  suspect  Mrs.  Challoner  was  even  better  look- 
ing  in  her  time." 

"Humph!  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  returned  her  host, 
in  a  dissatisfied  tone.  He  had  not  brought  Lady 
Fitzroy  there  to  talk  of  the  Challoners,  but  to 
admire  his  orchids.  Then  he  shot  another  glance 
at  Nan  between  his  half-closed  eyes,  and  a  little 
spice  of  malice  flavored  his  next  words. 

"Shall  we  sit  here  a  moment?  Let  me  see;  you 
were  asking  me,  Lady  Fitzroy,  about  Dick's  pros- 
pects. I  was  talking  to  his  mother  about  them  the 
other  day.  I  said  to  her  then  Dick  must  settle  in 
life  well;  he  must  marry  money." 

"Indeed?"  replied  Lady  Fitzroy,  somewhat  ab- 
sently; she  even  indulged  in  a  slight  yawn  behind 
her  fan.  She  liked  Dick  well  enough,  as  every  one 
else  did,  but  she  was  not  partial  to  his  father. 

How  tiresome  it  was  of  Fitzroy  to  insist  so  much 
on  their  neighborly  duties! 

Mr.  Mayne  was  not  "one  of  them,"  as  she  would 
have  phrased  it;  he  did  not  speak  their  language  or 
lead  their  life;  their  manners  and  customs,  their 
lit  tie  tricks  and  turns  of  thought,  were  hieroglyphics 
to  him. 

A  man  who  had  never  had  a  grandfather — at  least 
a  grandfather  worth  knowing — whose  father's  hands 
had  dabbled  in  trade— actually  trade—such  a  one 
might  be  a  very  worthy  man,  an  excellent  citizen,., 
an  exemplary  husband  and  father,but  it  behooved  a>: 
woman  in  her  position  not  to  descend  too  freely  to", 
his  level 

"Percival  is  such  a  sad  Radical,"  she.  wp&ld.say 
to  herself;  4  he  does  not  make  '  3tr5cie»t  distinction 


46  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

between  people.  I  should  wish  to  be  neighborly, 
but  I  can  not  bring  myself  to  be  familiar  with  these 
Maynes;"  which  was  perhaps  the  reason  why  Lady 
Fitzroy  was*  not  as  popular  at  Longmead  and  in 
other  places  as  her  good  natured  husband. 

4*Oh,  indeed!"  she  said,  with  difficulty  repressing 
another  slight  yawn  behind  her  fan,  but  speaking  in 
a  fatigued  voice:  but  Mr.  Mayne  was  too  intent  on 
his  purpose  to  notice  it. 

44  If  Dick  had  brothers  and  sisters  it  would  not 
matter  so  much;  but  when  one  has  only  a  single 
hope— eh,  Lady  Fitzroy? — things  must  be  a  little 
different  then." 

44He  will  have  plenty  of  choice,"  she  returned, 
with  an  effort  at  graciousness.  44Oldfield  is  rich  in 
pretty  girls" — and  she  cast  another  approving 
glance  at  poor  Nan;  but  Mr.  Mayne  interrupted  her 
almost  rudely. 

44 Ah,  as  to  that,"  he  returned,  with  a  sneer,  44we 
want  no  such  nonsense  for  Dick.  Here  are  the  facts 
of  the  case.  Here  is  an  honest,  good-tempered 
young  fellow,  but  with  no  particular  push  in  him; 
he  has  money,  you  say — yes,  but  not  enough  to  give 
him  the  standing  I  want  him  to  have.  I  am  ambi- 
tious for  Dick.  I  want  him  to  settle  in  life  well. 
Why,  he  might  be  called  to  the  bar;  he  might  enter 
Parliament;  there  is  no  limit  to  a  man's  career 
nowadays;  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  him,  but  he  must 
meet  me  half-way." 

*4You  mean,"  observed  Lady  Fizroy,  with  a  little 
perplexity  in  her  tone,  *4that  he  must  look  out  for 
an  heiress."  She  was  not  in  the  secret,  and  could 
not  understand  why  her  host  was  treating  her  to 
this  outburst  of  confidence.  44It  was  so  disagreeable 
to  be  mixed  up  with  this  sort  of  thing,"  as  she  told 
her  husband  afterward.  I4I  never  knew  him  quite 
so  odious  before;  and  there  was  that  pretty  Miss 
Challoner  sitting  near  us,  and  he  never  let  me  ad- 
dress a  word  to  her." 

began  to  feel  sfce  bad  bad  enough  of  it     Sb* 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  47 

started  up  hastily  as  Lady  Fitzroy  said  the  last 
words,  but  the  entrance  of  some  more  young  people 
compelled  her  to  stand  inside  for  a  moment,  and 
she  heard  Mr.  Mayne's  answer  distinctly:  "Well, 
not  an  heiress  exactly;  but  the  girl  I  have  in  view 
for  him  has  a  pretty  little  sum  of  money,  and  the 
connection  is  all  that  could  be  wished;  she  is  nice 
looking,  too,  and  is  a  bright,  taking  little  body — " 
But  here  Nan  made  such  a  resolute  effort  to  pass, 
that  the  rest  of  the  sentence  was  lost  upon  her. 

Dick,  who  was  strolling  up  and  down  the  lawn 
rather  discontentedly,  hurried  up  to  her  as  she  came 
out. 

"They  are  playing  a  waltz;  come,  Nan,"  he  said, 
holding  out  his  hand  to  her  with  his  usual  eager- 
ness ;  but  she  shook  her  head. 

44 1  can  not  dance;  I  am  too  tired:  there  are  others 
you  ought  to  ask. "  She  spoke  a  little  ungraciously, 
and  Dick's  face  wore  a  look  of  dismay  as  *  he  walked 
away  from  him  with  quick  even  footsteps. 

Tired!  Nan  tired!  he  had  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing.  What  had  put  her  out?  The  sweet  bright- 
ness had  died  out  of  her  eyes,  and  her  cheeks  were 
flaming.  Should  he  follow  her  and  have  it  out  with 
her,  there  and  then?  But,  as  he  hesitated,  young 
Hamilton  came  over  the  grass  and  linked  his  arm  in 
his. 

"Come  and  introduce  me  to  that  girl  in  blue 
gauze,  or  whatever  you  call  that  flimsy  manufac- 
ture. Come  along,  there's  a  good  fellow,"  he  said 
coaxingly;  and  Dick's  opportunity  was  lost. 

But  he  was  wrong;  tor  once  in  her  life  Nan  was 
tired;  the  poor  girl  felt  a  sudden  quenching  of  her 
bright  elasticity  that  amounted  to  absolute  fatigue. 

She  had  spoken  to  Dick  sharply;  but  that  was  to 
get  rid  of  him  and  to  recall  him  to  a  sense  of  Ins 
duty  Not  for  worlds  would  she  be  seen  dancing 
with  him,  or  even  talking  to  him,  again! 

She  sat  down  on  a  stump  of  a  tree  in  the  shrub- 
bery^ aud  wondered  wearily  what  bad  taken  it  out 


48  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

of  her  so  much.  And  then  she  recalled,  sentence 
by  sentence,  everything  that  had  passed  in  the  con- 
servatory. 

She  had  found  out  quite  lately  that  Mr.  Mayne 
did  not  approve  of  her  intimacy  with  Dick.  His 
manner  had  somewhat  changed  to  her,  and  several 
times  he  had  spoken  to  her  in  a  carping,  fault- 
finding way — little  cut-and-dried  sentences  of  elderly 
wisdom  that  she  had  not  understood  at  the  time. 

She  had  not  pleased  him  of  late,  somehow,  and  all 
her  little  efforts  and  overtures  had  been  lost  upon 
him.  Nan  had  been  quite  aware  of  this,  but  r't  had 
not  troubled  her  much:  it  was  away  he  had,  and  he 
meant  nothing  by  it.  Most  men  had  humors  that 
must  be  respected,  and  Dick's  father  had  his.  So 
she  bore  herself  very  sweetly  towar'd  him,  treating 
his  caustic  remarks  as  jokes,  and  laughing  pleas- 
antly at  them,  never  taking  his  hints  in  earnest;  he 
would  know  better  some  day,  that  was  all;  but  she 
had  no  idea  of  any  deeply  laid  plan  against  their 
happiness.  She  felt  as  though  some  one  had 
struck  her  hard;  she  had  received  a  blow  that  set 
all  her  nerves  tingling.  It  was  very  funny,  what  he 
said;  it  was  so  droll  that  it  almost  made  her  laugh; 
and  yet  her  eyes  smarted,  and  her  cheeks  felt  on 
fire. 

44 'Dick  must  marry  money.'  Why  must  he? — 
that  was  so  droll.  *  Well,  not  an  heiress  exactly,  but 
a  pretty  little  sum  of  money,  and  a  bright,  taking 
little  body. '  Who  was  this  mysterious  person  whom 
he  had  in  view,  whose  connection,  were  so  desir- 
able, who  was  to  be  Dick's  future  wife?  Dick's 
future  wife!"  repeated  Nan,  with  an  odd  little 
quiver-  of  her  lip.  "And  was  it  not  droll,  settling 
it  all  for  him  like  that?" 

Nan  fell  into  a  brown  study,  and  then  woke  up 
with  a  little  gasp.  It  was  all  clear  to  her  now,  all 
those  little  cut-and-dried  sentences — all  those  veiled 
sneers  and  innuendoes. 

They  were  poor— poor  as  church  mice— and  Dick 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  19 

must  marry  money.  Mr.  Mayne  had  laid  his  plans 
for  his  son,  and  was  watching  their  growing  inti- 
macy with  disapproving  eyes.  Perhaps  "the  bright 
taking  little  body"  might  accompany  them  to  Swit- 
zerland; perhaps  among  the  mountains  Dick  would 
forget  her,  and  lend  a  ready  acquiescence  to  his 
father's  plans.  Who  was  she.''  Had  Nan  ever 
seen  her?  Could  she  be  here  this  afternoon,  this 
future  rival  and  enemy  of  her  peace? 

44 Ah,  what  nonsense  I  am  thinking!"  she  ex- 
claimed to  herself,  starting  up  with  a  little  shame 
and  impatience  at  her  own  thoughts.  "What  has 
all  this  got  to  do  with  me?  Let  them  settle  it  be- 
tween them — money-bags  and  all.  Dick  is  Dick, 
and,  after  all,  I  am  not  afraid!"  And  Nan  marched 
back  to  the  company,  with  her  head  higher,  and  a 
great  assumption  of  cheerfulness,  and  a  little  gnaw- 
ing feeling  of  discomfort  at  her  heart,  to  which  she 
would  not  have  owned  for  worlds. 

Nan  was  the  gayest  of  the  day  that  evening,  but 
she  would  not  dance  again  with  Dick;  she  sent  the 
poor  boy  away  from  her  with  a  decision  and  per- 
emptoriness  that  struck  him  with  fresh  dismay. 

"You  are  not  tired  now,  Nan;  you  have  been 
waltzing  ever  so  long  with  Cathcart  and  Hamilton." 

**Never  mind  about  me  to-night ;  you  must  go  and 
ask  Lady  Fitzroy.  No,  I  am  not  cross.  Do  you 
think  I  would  be  cross  to  you  on  your  birthday? 
But  all  the  same  I  will  not  have  you  neglect  your 
duties.  Go  and  ask  her  this  moment,  sir!"  And 
Nan  smiled  in  his  face  in  the  most  bewitching  way, 
and  gave  a  little  flutter  to  her  fan.  She  accepted 
Mr.  Hamilton's  invitation  to  a  waltz  under  Dick's 
very  eyes,  and  whirled  away  on  his  arm,  while  Dick 
stood  looking  at  her  ruefully. 

Just  at  the  very  last  moment  Nan's  heart  re- 
lented. 

"Walk  down  to  the  gate  with  us,"  she  whispered, 
as  she  passed  him  on  her  way  to  the  cloak-room. 

Dick,  who  was  by  this  time  in  a  somewhat  surly 


00  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

humor,  made  no  sort  of  response;  nevertheless, 
Nan  found  him  out  on  the  gravel  path  waiting  for 
them,  in  company  with  Cathcart  and  Hamilton. 

Nan  shook  off  the  latter  rather  cleverly,  and  took 
Dick's  arm,  in  cheerful  unconsciousness  ot  his  ill 
humor. 

44 It  is  so  good  of  you  to  come  with  us.  I  wanted 
to  get  you  a  moment  to  myself,  -to  congratulate  you 
on  the  success  of  the  evening.  It  was  admirably 
managed;  every  one  says  so:  even  Lady  Fitzroy 
was  pleased,  and  her  ladyship  is  a  trifle  fastidious. 
Have  the  band  in-doors,  and  set  them  to  dancing — 
that  is  what  I  said ,  and  it  has  turned  out  a  complete 
success,"  finished  Nan,  with  a  little  gush  of  enthu- 
siasm; but  she  did  not  find  Dick  responsive. 

"Oh,  bother  the  success  and  all  that1"  returned 
that  very  misguided  young  man;  44it  was  the 
slowest  affair  to  me,  I  assure  you,  and  lam  thankful 
it  is  over  You  have  spoiled  the  evening  to  me.  and 
that  is  what  you  have  done,"  grumbled  Dick,  in  his 
most  ominous  voice. 

44 1  spoiled  your  evening,  you  ungrateful  boy!" 
replied  Nan,  innocently;  but  she  smiled  to  herself 
in  the  darkness,  and  the  re  proach  was  sweet  to  her. 
They  had  entered  the  garden  of  Glen  Cottage  by 
this  time,  and  Dick  was  fiercely  marching  her  down 
a  side  path  that  led  to  the  kitchen.  The  hall  door 
stood  open.  Cathcart  and  Hamilton  were  chatting 
with  the  girls  in  the  porch,  while  Mrs.  Challoner 
went  inside.  They  peered  curiously  into  the  sum- 
rm  r  dusk,  as  Dick's  impatient  footsteps  grated  on 
the  gravel  path. 

"I  spoiled  your  evening!"  repeated  Nan,  lifting 
her  bright  eyes  with  the  gleam  of  fun  still  in 
them. 

4*Yes,"  blurted  out  Dick.  "Why  have  you  kept 
me  at  such  a  distance  all  the  evening?  Why  would 
you  not  dance  with  me?  and  you  gave  Hamilton 
three  waltzes.  It  was  not  like  you,  Nan,  to  treat 
me  so — and  on  my  birthday,  too,"  went  on  the  poor 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  51 

fellow,  with  a  pathos  that  brought  another  sort  of 
gleam  to  Nan's  eyes,  only  she  still  laughed. 

"Ah,  you  foolish  boy!"  she  said,  and  gave  his 
coat  sleeve  a  coaxing  little  pat.  "I  would  rather 
have  danced  with  you  than  Mr  Hamilton,  though 
he  does  reverse  beautifully,  and  I  never  knew  any 
one  who  waltzed  more  perfectly." 

"Oh,  I  do  not  presume  to  rival  Hamilton,"  began 
i-»ick,  hotly,  but  she  silenced  him. 

"Listen  to  me,  you  foolish  Dick.  I  would  have 
danced  with  you  willingly,  but  I  knew  my  duty  bet- 
ter, or  rather  I  knew  yours.  You  were  a  public 
man  to  day;  the  eyes  of  the  county  were  upon  you. 
You  had  to  pay  court  to  the  big  ladies,  and  to  take 
no  notice  of  p  >or  liitle  me  I  sent  you  away  for 
your  own  good,  and  because  I  valued  )our  duty 
above  my  pleasure,"  continued  this  heroic  >oung 
person  in  a  perfectly  satisfied  tone. 

"And  you  wanted  to  dance  with  me,  Nan,  and 
not  witli  that  goose  of  a  Hamilton?  '  in  a  wheedling 
voice. 

14  Yes,  Dick;  but  he  is  not  a  goose  for  all  that:  he 
is  more  of  a  swan  in  my  opinion." 

**He  is  a  conceited  ass,"  was  the  very  unexpected 
reply,  which  was  a  little  hard  on  Dick's  chum,  who 
was  in  maiiy  ways  a  most  estimable  young  man 
and  vastly  his  superior  "Why  are  you  laughing, 
when  you  know  I  hate  prigs?  and  Hamilton  is 
about  the  biggest  I  ever  knew."  But  this  did  not 
mend  matters,  and  Nan's  laugh  still  rang  merrily 
in  the  darkness. 

4 'What  are  these  two  doing?"  asked  Phillis,  try- 
ing to  peep  between  the  lilac  bushes,  but  failing  to 
discover  more  than  the  white  glimmer  of  Nan's 
shawl. 

Nan's  laugh,  though  it  was  full  of  sweet  triumph, 
only  irritated  Dick;  the  lord  of  the  evening  was 
still  too  sore  and  humiliated  by  all  these  rebuffs  and 
repulses  to  take  the  fun  in  good  part 

"What  is  it  that  amuses  you  so?"  he  asked,  rather 


52  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

crossly.  "That  is  the  worst  of  you  girls;  you  are 
always  so  ready  to  make  merry  at  a  fellow's  ex- 
pense. You  are  taking  Hamilton's  part  against  me, 
Nan — I,  who  am  your  oldest  friend,  who  have 
always  been  faithful  to  you  ever  since  you  were  a 
child/'  continued  the  young  man,  with  a  growing 
sense  of  aggravation. 

44 Oh,  Dick!"  and  Nan's  voice  faltered  a  little,  she 
was  rather  touched  at  this. 

Dick  took  instant  note  of  the  change  of  key,  and 
went  on  in  the  same  injured  voice: 

"Why  should  I  look  after  all  the  big  people  and 
take  no  notice  of  you?  Have  I  not  made  it  my  first 
duty  to  look  after  you  as  long  as  I  can  remember? 
Though  the  whole  world  were  about  us,  would  you 
not  be  the  first  and  the  principal  to  me?" 

"Don't  Dick,"  she  said,  faintly,  trying  to  repress 
him;  "you  must  not  talk  in  that  way,  and  I  must 
not  listen  to  you,  your  father  would  not  like 
it." 

The  words  were  sweet  to  her — precious  beyond 
everything — but  she  must  not  have  him  speak 
them.  But  Dick,  in  his  angry  excitement,  was  not 
to  be  repressed. 

"What  does  it  matter  what  he  likes?  This  is  be- 
tween you  and  me,  Nan;  no  one  shall  meddle  be- 
tween us  two. "  But  what  imprudent  speech  Dick 
was  about  to  add  was  suddenly  quenched  in  light 
pealing  laughter.  At  this  critical  moment  they 
were  met  and  surrounded ;  before  them  was  the  red 
glow  of  Cathcart's  cigar,  the  whiteness  of  Phillis's 
gown;  behind  were  two  more  advancing  figures. 
In  another  second  the  young  people  had  joined 
hands:  a  dusky  ring  formed  round  the  startled 
pair. 

"Fairly  caught!"  cried  Dulce's  sunshiny  voice; 
the  mischievous  little  monkey  had  no  idea  of  the 
sport  she  was  spoiling  None  of  the  young  people 
thought  of  anything  but  fun;  Dick  was  just  Diet, 
hte  4nd  Nan  were  always  together. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  G1RXS.  53 

Dick  muttered  something  inaudible  under  his 
breath;  but  Nan  was  quite  equal  to  the  occasion; 
she  was  still  palpitating  a  little  with  the  pleasure 
Dick's  words  had  given  her,  but  she  confronted  her 
tormentors  boldly. 

"You  absurd  creatures,"  she  said,  "to  steal  a 
march  on  us  like  that!  Dick  and  I  were  having  a 
quarrel;  we  were  fighting  so  hard  that  we  did  nut 
hear  you." 

"I  enjoy  a  good  fight  above  everything,"  ex- 
claimed Cathcart,  throwing  away  his  cigar.  He 
was  a  handsome  dark-eyed  boy,  with  no  special  in- 
dividuality, except  an  overweening  sense  of  fun. 
"What's  the  odds,  Mayne?  and  who  is  likely  to  be 
the  winner?" 

"Oh,  Nan,  of  course,"  returned  Dick,  trying  to 
recover  himself.  "I  am  the  captive  of  her  spear 
and  of  her  bow;  she  is  in  possession  of  everything, 
myself  included." 

The  rest  laughed  at  Dick's  jest,  as  they  thought 
it;  and  Mr.  Hamilton  said,  "Bravo,  Miss  Challoner! 
we  will  help  to  drag  him  at  your  chariot  wheels. " 
But  Nan  changed  color  in  the  darkness. 

They  went  in  after  this,  and  the  young  men  took 
their  leave  in  the  porch.  Dick's  strong  grip  of  the 
hand  conveyed  his  meaning  fully  to  Nan.  "Re- 
member, I  meant  it  all,"  it  seemed  to  say  to  her. 

"What  did  it  matter?  I  am  quite  sure  of  him. 
Dick  is  Dick,"  thought  Nan,  as  she  laid  her  head 
happily  on  the  pillow. 

As  for  Dick,  he  had  a  long  ordeal  before  him  ere 
he  could  make  his  escape  to  the  smoking-room, 
where  his  friends  awaited  him.  Mr  Mayne  had  a 
grt-at  deal  to  say  to  him  about  the  day,  and  Dick 
had  to  listen  and  try  to  look  interested. 

"I  am  sure  Dick  behaved  beautifully,  observed 
Mrs.  Mayne,  when  her  son  and  heir  had  at  last 
lounged  off  to  his  companions. 

"Well,  yes;  he  did  very  well  on  the  whole,"  wag 
the  grudging  response;  '"but  I  must  say  those 


*4  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Challoner  girls  made  themselves  far  too  conspicuous 
for  my  taste;"  but  to  this  his  wife  prudently  made 
no  reply. 


CHAPTER   VI. 
MR.  TRINDER'S  VISIT. 

The  next  few  days  passed  far  too  quickly  for 
Nan's  pleasure,  and  Dick's  last  morning  arrived, 
The  very  next  day  the  Maynes  were  to  start  foi 
Switzerland,  and  Longmead  was  to  stand  empty  for 
the  remainder  of  the  summer.  It  was  a  dreary 
prospect  for  Nan,  and  in  spite  of  her  high  spirits 
her  courage  grew  somewhat  low.  Six  months!  who 
could  know  what  might  happen  before  they  met 
again?  Nan  was  not  the  least  bit  superstitious, 
neither  was  it  her  wont  to  indulge  in  useless  specu- 
lations or  forebodings:  but  she  could  not  shake  off 
this  morning  a  strange  uncanny  feeling  that  haunted 
her  in  spite  of  herself — a  presentment  that  things 
were  not  going  to  be  just  as  she  would  have  them — 
that  Dick  and  she  would  not  meet  again  in  exactly 
the  same  manner. 

"How  silly  I  am!"  she  thought,  for  the  twentieth 
time,  as  she  brushed  out  her  glossy  brown  hair  and 
arranged  it  in  her  usual  simple  fashion. 

Nan  and  her  sisters  were  a  little  behind  the  times 
in  some  ways;  they  had  never  thought  fit  to  cur) 
their  hair  en  garcon.  or  to  mount  a  pyramid  of  tan- 
gled curls  in  imitation  of  a  poodle;  no  pruriing-scis- 
sors  had  touched  the  light-springing  locks  that  grew 
so  prettily  about  their  temples;  in  this,  as  in  much 
else,  they  were  unlike  other  girls,  for  they  dared  to 
put  individuality  before  fashion,  and  good  taste  and 
a  sense  of  beauty  against  the  specious  arguments  of 
the  multitude. 

"How  silly  I  am!"  again  repeated  Nan.  "What 
can  happen,  what  should  happen,  except  that  I  shall 
have  a  dull  summer,  and  shall  be  very  glad  when 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  65 

Christmas  and  Dick  come  together;"  and  then  she 
shook  her  little  basket  of  housekeeping  keys  until 
they  jingled  merrily,  and  ran  down-stairs  with  a 
countenance  she  meant  to  keep  bright  for  the  rest 
of  the  day. 

They  were  to  play  tennis  at  the  Paines'  that  after- 
noon, and  afterward  the  three  girls  were  to  dine  at 
Longmead.  Mrs.  Challoner  had  been  invited  also; 
but  she  had  made  some  excuse,  and  pleaded  for  a 
quiet  evening.  She  was  never  very  ready  to  accept 
these  invitations;  there  was  nothing  in  common  be- 
tween her  and  Mrs.  Mayne;  and  in  her  h^art  she 
agreed  with  Lady  Fitzroy  in  thinking  the  master  of 
Longmead  odious. 

It  was  Mr.  Mayne  who  had  tendered  this  parting 
hospitality  to  his  neighbors,  and  he  chose  to  be 
much  offended  at  Mrs.  Challoners  refusal. 

"I  think  it  is  very  unfriendly  of  your  mother, 
when  we  are  such  old  neighbors,  and  on  our  last 
evening,  too,"  he  said  to  Nan,  as  she  entered  the 
drawing-room  that  evening,  bringing  her  mother's 
excuses  wrapped  up  in  the  prettiest  words  she  could 
find. 

"Mother  is  not  quite  well;  she  does  not  feel  up  to 
the  exertion  of  dining  out  to-night,"  returned  Nan, 
trying  to  put  a  good  face  on  it,  but  feeling  as  though 
things  were  too  much  for  her  this  evening.  It  was 
bad  enough  for  Mr.  Mayne  to  insist  on  them  all 
coming  up  to  a  long  formal  dinner,  and  spoiling 
their  chances  of  a  twilight  stroll;  but  it  was  still 
worse  for  her  mother  to  abandon  them  after  this 
fashion. 

The  new  novel  must  have  had  something  to  do 
with  this  sudden  indisposition;  but  when  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner had  wrapped  herself  up  in  her  white  shawl, 
always  a  bad  sign  with  her,  and  had  declared  herself 
unfit  for  any  exertion,  what  could  a  dutiful 
daughter  do  but  deliver  her  excuses  as  gracefully  as 
she  could?  Nevertheless,  Mr.  Mayne  frowned  and 
expressed  himself  ill  pleased. 


56  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 

"I  should  have  thought  an  effort  could  have  been 
made  on  such  an  occasion,"  was  his  final  thrust, 
as  he  gave  his  arm  ungraciously  to  Nan,  and  con- 
ducted her  with  ominous  solemnity  to  the  table. 

It  was  not  a  festive  meal,  in  spite  of  all  Mrs. 
Mayne's  efforts.  Dick  looked  glum.  He  was  sep- 
arated from  Nan  by  a  vast  silver  epergne,  that  fully 
screened  her  from  view.  Another  time  she  would 
have  peeped  merrily  at  him  and  given  him  a 
sprightly  nod  or  two;  but  how  was  she  to  do  it  when 
Mr  Mayne  never  relaxed  his  gloomy  muscles,  and 
when  he  insisted  on  keeping  up  a  ceremonious  flow 
of  conversation  with  her  on  the  subjects  of  the  day? 

When  Dick  tried  to  strike  into  their  talk,  he  got 
so  visibly  snubbed  that  he  was  obliged  to  take 
refuge  with  Phillis. 

"You  young  fellows  never  know  what  you  are 
talking  about,"  observed  Mr.  Mayne,  sharply,  when 
Dick  had  hazarded  a  remark  about  the  premier's 
policy;  "you  are  a  Radical  one  day  and  a  Conserva- 
tive another.  That  comes  of  your  debating  soci- 
eties You  take  contrary  sides,  and  mix  up  a 
balderdash  of  ideas,  until  you  don't  know  whether 
you  are  standing  on  your  head  or  your  heels;"  and 
it  was  after  this  that  Dick  found  his  refuge  with 
Phillis. 

It  was  a  little  better  when  they  were  all  in  the 
drawing-room  together.  If  Mr.  Mayne  had  invited 
them  there  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  them  all 
under  his  own  eyes  and  making  them  uncomfortable, 
he  could  not  have  managed  better.  When  Dick 
suggested  a  stroll  in  the  garden  he  said: 

"Pshaw!  what  nonsense  proposing  such  a  thing, 
when  the  dews  are  heavy  and  the  girls  will  catch 
their  deaths  of  cold!" 

"We  do  it  every  evening  of  our  lives,"  observed 
Nan,  hardily;  but  even  she  dared  not  persevere  in 
the  face  of  this  protest,  though  she  exchanged  a 
rebellious  look  with  Dick  that  did  him  good  and 
put  him  in  a  better  humor. 


JSTOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  57 

They  found  their  way  into  the  conservatory  after 
that,  but  were  hunted  out  on  pretence  of  having  a 
little  music;  at  least  Nan  would  have  it  that  it  was 
pretence. 

4 'Your  father  does  not  care  much  for  music,  I 
know,"  she  whispered,  as  she  placed  herself  at  the 
grand  piano,  while  Dick  leaned  against  it  and 
watched  her.  It  was  naughty  of  Nan,  but  there 
was  no  denying  that  she  found  Mr.  Mayne  more 
aggravating  than  usual  this  evening. 

"Come,  come,  Miss  Nancy!"  he  called  out — he 
always  called  her  that  when  he  wished  to  annoy 
her,  for  Nan  had  a  special  dislike  to  her  quaint, 
old-fashioned  name;  it  had  been  her  mother's  and 
grandmother's  name;  in  every  generation  there 
had  been  a  Nancy  Challoner — "come,  come.  Miss 
Nancy!  we  can  not  have  you  playing  at  hide-and- 
seek  in  this  fashion.  We  want  some  music.  Give 
us  something  rousing,  to  keep  us  all  awake. "  And 
Nan  had  reluctantly  placed  herself  at  the  piano. 

She  did  her  little  best  according  to  orders,  for  she 
dared  not  offend  Dick's  father.  None  of  the  Challo- 
ners  were  accomplished  girls.  Dulce  sung  a  little, 
and  so  did  Nan,  but  Phyllis  could  not  play  the 
simplest  piece  without  bungling;  and  her  uncertain 
little  warblings,  which  were  sweet  but  hardly  true, 
were  reserved  for  church.  . 

Dulce  sung  very  prettily,  but  she  could  only 
manage  her  own  accompaniments  or  a  sprightly 
waltz.  Nan,  who  did  most  of  the  execution  of  the 
family,  was  a  very  fair  performer  from  a  young 
lady's  point  of  view,  and  that  is  not  saying  much. 
She  always  had  her  piece  ready  if  people  wanted 
her  to  play.  She  sat  down  without  nervousness 
and  rose  without  haste.  She  had  a  choice  little 
repertory  of  old  songs  and  ballads,  that  she  could 
produce  without  hesitation  from  memory — "My 
mother  bids  me  bind  my  hair,"  or  "Did  your  faith- 
ful Ariel  fly,"  and  such-tike  songs,  in  which  there 
is  more  melody  than  in  a  hundred  new  «mes,  and 


58  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

which  she  sung  in  a  simple,  artless  fashion  that 
pleased  the  elder  people  greatly.  Dulce  could  do 
more  than  this,  but  her  voict  had  never  been  prop- 
erly tutored,  and  she  sung  her  bird-music  in  bird- 
fashion,  rather  wildly  and  shrilly,  with  small  respect 
to  rule  and  art,  nevertheless  making  a  pleading 
noise,  as  a  young  foreigner  once  told  her. 

When  Nan  had  exhausted  her  little  stock,  Mr. 
Mayne  peremptorily  invited  them  to  a  round  game; 
and  the  rest  of  the  evening  was  spent  in  trying  to 
master  the  mysteries  of  a  new  game,  over  the  in- 
volved rules  of  which  Mr.  Mayne,  as  usual,  wrangled 
fiercely  with  everybody,  while  Dick  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  shuffled  his  cards  with  such  evident 
ill- humor  that  Nan  hurried  her  sisters  away  half 
an  hour  before  the  usual  time,  in  terror  ot  an  out- 
break. 

It  was  an  utterly  disappointing  evening;  and,  to 
make  matters  worse,  Mr.  Mayne  actually  lighted 
his  cigar  and  strolled  down  the  garden  paths,  keep- 
ing quite  close  to  Nan,  and  showing  such  obvious 
intention  of  accompanying  them  to  the  very  gate  of 
the  cottage  that  there  could  be  no  thought  of  any 
sweet  lingering  in  the  dusk 

"I  will   be  even  with  him,"  growled  Dick,  who 
was  in  a  state  of  suppressed   irritation   under   this* 
unexpected  surveillance;  and  in  the  darkest  part  of 
the  road  he  twitched   Nan's  sleeve  to  attract  her 
attention,  and  whispered,  in  so  low  a  voice  that  his 
father  could  not  hear  him,  "This  is  not  good-bye 
F  will  be  round  at  the  cottage  to-morrow  morning;" 
and    Nan   nodded  hurriedly,    and   tlv  n   turned   her 
head  to  answer  Mr.  Mayne's  last  qu  si  ion 

If  Dick  had  put  all  his  feelings  in  his  hand-shake, 
it  could  not  have  spoken  to  Nan  more  eloquently 
of  the  young  man's  wrath  and  chagrin  and  con- 
cealed tenderness.  Nan  shot  him  one  of  her  swift, 
straightforward  looks  in  answer. 

"Never  mind,"  it  seemed  to  say;  "we  shall  have 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  69 

to-morrow;"    and  then  she  bade  them  cheerfully 

good- night. 

Dorothy  met  her  in  the  hall,  and  put  down  her 

chambei  candle  stick. 

"Has  the  mother  gone  to  bed  yet,  Dorothy?" 
questioned  the  young  mistress,  speaking  still  with 
that  enforced  cheerfulness. 

"No,  Miss  Nan;  she  is  still  there/'  jerking  her 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  drawing-room.  "Mr. 
Trindler  called,  and  was  with  her  a  long  time  I 
thought  she  seemed  a  bit  poorly  when  I  took  in  the 
lamp." 

"Mamsie  is  never  fit  for  anything  when  that  old 
ogre  has  been,"  broke  in  Dulce,  impatiently.  "He 
always  comes  and  tells  her  some  nightmare  tale  or 
other  to  prevent  her  sleeping.  Now  we  shall  not 
have  the  new  gowns  we  set  our  hearts  on,  Nan." 

"Oh,  never  mind  the  gowns,"  returned  Nan, 
rather  wearily. 

What  did  it  matter  if  they  had  to  wear  their  old 
ones  when  Dick  would  not  be  there  to  see  them? 
And  Dorothy,  who  was  contemplating  her  favorite 
nursling  with  the  privileged  tenderness  of  an  old 
servant,  chimed  in  with  the  utmost  cheerfulness: 

"It  does  not  matter  what  she  wears;  does  it,  Miss 
Nan?  She  looks  just  as  nice  in  an  old  gown  as  a 
new  one;  that  is  what  I  say  of  all  my  young  ladies; 
dress  does  not  matter  a  bit  to  them." 

"How  long  are  you  all  going  to  stand  chattering 
with  Dorothy?'5  interrupted  Phyllis,  in  her  clear 
decided  voice.  "Mother  will  wonder  what  con- 
spiracy we  are  hatching,  and  why  we  leave  her  so 
long  alone."  And  then  Dorothy  took  up  her 
candle-stick,  grumbling  a  little,  as  she  often  did? 
over  Miss  Phillis's  masterful  ways,  and  the  girls 
went  laughingly  into  their  mother's  presence. 

Though  it  was  summer  time,  Mrs.  Challoner's 
3asy-ch;iir  was  drawn  up  in  front  of  the  rug,  and 
she  sat  wrapped  in  her  white  shawl,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  pretty  painted  fire  screen  that  hid  the 


60  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

blackness  of  the  coals.  She  did  not  turn  her  head 
or  move  as  hei  daughters  entered;  indeed,  so 
motionless  was  her  attitude  that  Duice  thought  she 
was  asleep,  and  went  on  tiptoe  round  her  chair  to 
steal  a  kiss.  But  Nan,  who  had  caught  sight  of  her 
mother's  face,  put  her  quickly  aside. 

"Don't,  Dulce:  mother  is  not  well.  What  is  the 
matter,  mammie  darling?1'  kneeling  down  and 
bringing  her  bright  face  on  a  level  with  her 
mother's.  She  would  have  taken  her  into  her 
vigorous  young  arms,  but  Mrs.  Calloner  almost 
pushed  her  away. 

4  *  Hush,  children!  Do  be  quiet,  Nan;  I  can  not 
talk  to  you.  I  can  not  answer  questions  to-night." 
And  then  she  shivered,  and  drew  her  shawl  closer 
round  her,  and  put  away  Nan's  caressing  hands, 
and  looked  at  them  all  with  a  face  that  seemed  to 
have  grown  pinched  and  old  all  at  once,  and  eyes 
full  of  misery. 

" Mammie,  you  must  speak  to  us,"  returned 
Nan,  not  a  whit  daunted  by  this  rebuff,  but  horribly 
frightened  all  the  time.  "Of  course,  Dorothy  told 
us  that  Mr.  Trinder  has  been  here,  and  of  course 
we  know  that  it  is  some  trouble  about  money." 
Then,  at  the  mention  of  Mr.  Trinder's  name,  Mrs. 
Challoner  shivered  again. 

Nan  waited  a  moment  for  an  answer;  but,  as 
none  came,  she  went  on  in  a  coaxing  voice: 

"Don't  be  afraid  to  tell  us,  mother  darling;  we 
can  all  bear  a  little  trouble,  I  hope.  We  have  had 
such  happy  lives,  and  we  can  not  go  on  being  happy 
always,"  continued  the  girl,  with  the  painful  con- 
viction coming  suddenly  into  her  mind  that  the 
brightness  of  these  days  was  over.  "Money  is  very 
nice,  and  one  can  not  do  without  it,  I  suppose;  but 
as  long  as  we  are  together,  and  love  each  other — " 

Then  Mrs.  Challoner  fixed  her  heavy  eyes  on  her 
daughter,  and  took  up  the  unfinished  sentence: 

"Ah,  if  we  could  only  be  together — if  I  were  not 
to  be  separated  from  my  children !  it  is  that — that 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  61 

is  crushing  me!"  and  then  she  pressed  her  dry  lips 
together,  and  folded  her  hands  with  a  gesture  of 
despair;  "but  I  know  that  it  must  be,  for  Mr. 
Trinder  has  told  me  everything.  It  is  no  use  shut- 
ting our  eyes  and  struggling  on  any  longer;  for  we 
are  ruined— ruined!"  her  voice  sinking  into  indis- 
tinctness. 

Nan  grew  a  little  pale.  If  they  were  ruined,  how 
would  it  be  with  her  and  Dick?  And  then  she 
thought  of  Mr.  Mayne,  and  her  heart  felt  faint 
within  her.  Nan,  who  had  Dick  added  to  her  per- 
plexnies,  was  hardly  equal  to  the  emergency;  but 
it  was  Phillis  who^  took  the  domestic  helm  as  it 
fell  from  her  sister's  hand. 

"If  we  be  ruined,  mother,"  she  said,  briskly,  "it 
is  not  half  so  bad  as  having  you  ill.  Nan,  why 
don't  you  rub  her  hands?  she  is  shivering  with 
cold,  or  with  bad  news,  or  something.  I  mean  to 
set  Dorothy  at  defiance,  and  to  light  a  nice  little 
fire,  in  spite  of  the  clean  muslin  curtains.  When 
one  is  ill  or  unhappy,  there  is  nothing  so  soothing 
as  a  fire,"  continued  Phillis,  as  she  removed  the 
screen  and  kindled  the  dry  wood,  not  heeding  Mrs. 
Chal loner's  feeble  remonstrances. 

"Don't,  Phillis:  we  shall  not  be  able  to  afford 
fires  now;"  and  then  she  became  a  little  hysterical. 
But  Phillis  persisted,  and  the  red  glow  was  soon 
coaxed  into  a  cheerful  blaze. 

"That  looks  more  comfortable.  I  feel  chilly  my- 
self; these  summer  nights  are  sometimes  deceptive. 
I  wonder  what  Dorothy  will  say  to  us;  I  mean  to 
ask  her  to  make  us  all  some  tea.  No,  mammie, 
you  are  not  to  interfere;  it  will  do  you  good,  and 
we  don't  mean  to  have  you  ill  if  we  can  help  it." 
And  then  she  looked  meaningly  at  Nan,  and  with- 
drew. 

There  was  no  boiling  water,  of  course,  and  the 
kitchen  fire  was  raked  out;  and  Dorothy  was  sit- 
ting in  solitary  state,  looking  very  grim. 

"It  is  time  for  folks  to  be  in  their  beds,  Miss 


62  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Phillis, "  she  said,  very  crossly.  <4I  don't  hold  with 
tea  myself  so  late:  it  excites  people,  and  keeps 
them  'awake. " 

44 Mother  is  not  just  the  thing,  and  a  cup  of  tea 
will  do  her  good.  Don't  let  us  keep  you  up,  Doro- 
thy," replied  Phyllis,  blandly.  44I  have  lighted  the 
drawing-room  fire,  and  I  can  boil  the  kettle  in 
there.  If  mother  has  got  a  chill,  I  would  not 
answer  for  the  consequences." 

Dorothy  grew  huffy  at  the  mention  of  the  fire, 
and  would  not  aid  or  abet  her  young  lady's  "fad," 
as  she  called  it. 

44 If  you  don't  want  me,  I  think  I  will  go  to  bed, 
Miss  Phillis.  Susan  went  off  a  long  time  ago." 
And,  as  Phillis  cheerfully  acquiesced  in  this 
arrangement,  Dorothy  decamped  with  a  frown  on 
her  brow,  and  left  Phillis  mistress  of  the  situation. 

4 'There,  now,  I  have  got  rid  of  the  cross  old 
thing,"  she  observed,  in  a  tone  of  relief,  as  she 
filled  the  kettle  ana  arranged  the  little  tea-tray. 

She  carried  them  both  into  the  room,  poising  the 
tray  skillfully  in  her  hand.  Nan  looked  up  in  a 
relieved  way  as  she  entered.  Mrs.  Challoner  was 
stretching  out  her  chilled  hands  to  the  blaze.  Her 
face  had  lost  its  pinched  unnatural  expression;  it 
\vas  as  though  the  presence  of  her  girls  fenced  her 
in  security,  and  her  misfortune  grew  more  shadowy 
and  faded  into  the  background.  She  drank  the  tea 
when  it  was  given  to  her,  and  even  begged  Nan  to 
follow  her  example.  Nan  took  a  little  to  please 
her,  though  she  hardly  believed  its  solace  would  be 
great;  but  Phillis  and  Dulce  drank  theirs  in  a  busi- 
ness-like way,  as  though  they  needed  support  and 
were  not  ashamed  to  own  it.  It  was  Nan  who  put 
down  her  cup  first  and  leaned  her  cheek  against 
her  mother's  hand. 

44  Now,  mother  dear,  we  want  to  hear  all  about  it. 
Does  Mr.  Trinder  say  we  are  really  so  dreadfully 
poor?" 

*'We  have  been  getting  poorer  for  a  long  time," 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  63 

returned  her  mother,  mournfully;  "but  if  we  only 
had  a  little  left  us  I  would  not  complain.  You  see, 
your  father  would  persist  in  these  investments  in 
spite  of  all  Mr.  Trinder  could  say,  and  now  his 
words  have  come  true."  But  this  vague  statement 
did  not  satisfy  Nan;  and  patiently,  and  with  diffi- 
culty, she  drew  from  her  mother  all  that  the  lawyer 
had  told  her. 

Mr  Challoner  had  been  called  to  the  bar  in  early 
life,  but  his  career  had  hardly  been  a  successful 
one.  He  had  held  few  briefs,  and,  though  he 
worked  hard,  and  had  good  capabilities,  he  had 
never  achieved  fortune;  and  as  he  lived  up  to  his 
income,  and  was  rather  fond  of  the  good  things  of 
this  life,  he  got  through  most  of  his  wife's  money, 
and,  contrary  to  the  advice  of  older  and  wiser  heads, 
invested  the  remainder  in  the  business  of  a  con- 
nection who  only  wanted  capital  to  make  his  for- 
tune, and  Mr.  Challoner's  too.  It  was  a  grievous 
error;  and  yet,  if  Mr.  Challoner  had  lived,  those 
few  thousands  would  hardly  have  been  so  sorely 
missed.  He  was  young  in  his  profession,  and  if  he 
had  been  spared,  success  would  have  come  to  him 
as  to  other  men;  but  he  was  cutoff  unexpectedly 
m  the  prime  of  life,  and  Mrs.  Challoner  gave  up 
her  large  house  at  Kensington,  and  settled  at  Glen 
Cottage  with  her  three  daughters,  understanding 
that  life  was  changed  for  her,  and  that  they  should 
have  to  be  content  with  small  means  and  few 
wanes. 

Hitherto  they  had  had  sufficient;  but  of  late 
years  there  had  been  dark  whispers  concerning  that 
invested  money;  things  were  not  quite  square  and 
above  board;  the  integrity  of  the  firm  was  doubted. 
Mr.  Trinder,  almost  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  begged 
Mrs,  Challoner  to  be  prudent  and  spend  less.  The 
crash  which  he  had  foreseen,  and  had  vainly  tried 
to  avert,  had  come  to  night.  Gardiner  &  Fowler 
were  bankrupt,  and  their  greatest  creditor, 
Challoner,  was  ruined. 


64  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"We  can  not  get  our  money.  Mr.  Trinder  says 
we  never  shall.  They  have  been  paying  their  div- 
idends correctly,  keeping  it  up  as  a  sort  of  blind, 
he  says;  but  all  the  capital  is  eaten  away.  George 
Gardiner,  too,  your  father's  cousin,  the  man  he 
trusted  above  every  one — he  to  defraud  the  widow 
and  the  fatherless,  to  take  our  money — my  children's 
only  portion — and  to  leave > us  beggared."  And 
Mrs.  Challoner,  made  tragical  by  this  great  blow, 
clasped  her  hands  and  looked  at  her  girls  with  two 
large  tears  rolling  down  her  face. 

4 'Mother,  are  you  sure?  is  it  quite  as  bad  as  that?" 
asked  Nan,  and  then  she  kissed  away  the  tears,  and 
said  something  rather  brokenly  about  having  faith, 
and  trying  not  to  lose  courage;  then  her  voice 
failed  her,  and  they  all  sat  quiet  together. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

PHILLIS'S    CATECHISM. 

A  veil  of  silence  fell  over  the  little  party. 
After  the  first  few  moments  of  dismay,  conjecture, 
and  exclamation,  there  did  not  seem  to  be  much 
that  any  one  could  say.  Each  girl  was  busy  with 
her  own  thoughts  and  private  interpretation  ot  a 
most  sorrowful  enigma.  What  were  they  to  do? 
How  were  they  to  live  without  separation,  and  with- 
out taking  a  solitary  plunge  into  an  unknown  and 
most  terrifying  world? 

Nan's  frame  of  mind  was  slightly  monotonous. 
What  would  Dick  say,  and  how  would  this  affect 
certain  vague  hopes  she  had  lately  cherished?  Then 
she  thought  of  Mr.  Mayne,  and  shivered,  and  a 
sense  of  coldness  and  remote  fears  stole  over  her. 

One  could  hardly  blame  her  for  this  sweet  dual 
selfishness  that  was  not  selfishness.  She  was  think- 
ing less  of  herself  than  of  a  certain  vigorous  young 
life  that  was  becoming  strongly  intwined  with  hers. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  65 

It  was  all  very  well  to  say  that  Dick  was  Dick;  but 
what  could  the  most  obstinate  will  of  even  that 
most  obstinate  young  man  avail  against  such  a  mis- 
erable combination  of  adverse  influences — "when 
the  stars  in  their  courses  fought  against  Sisera?" 
And  at  this  juncture  of  her  thoughts  she  could  feel 
Phillis's  hand  folding  softly  over  hers  with  a  most 
sisterly  pressure  full  of  understanding  and  sym- 
pathy. Phillis  had  no  Dick  to  stand  sentinel  over 
her  private  thoughts;  she  was  free  to  be  alert  and 
vigilant  for  others.  Nevertheless,  her  forehead 
was  puckered  up  with  hard  thinking,  and  her  silence 
was  so  very  expressive  that  Dulce  sat  and  looked 
at  her  with  grave,  unsmiling  eyes,  the  innocent 
child-like  look  in  them  growing  very  pathetic  at 
the  speechlessness  that  had  overtaken  them.  As 
for  Mrs.  Challoner,  she  still  moaned  feebly  from 
time  to  time,  as  she  stretched  her  numb  hands 
toward  the  comforting  warmth.  They  were  fine 
delicate  hands,  with  the  polished  look  of  old  ivory, 
and  there  were  diamond  rings  on  them  that  twinkled 
and  shone  as  she  moved  them  in  her  restlessness. 

"They  shall  all  go;  I  will  keep  nothing/'  she 
said,  regarding  them  plaintively;  for  they  were 
heir-looms,  and  highly  valued  as  relics  of  a  "wealthy 
past. "  "It  is  not  this  sort  of  thing  that  I  mind.  I 
would  live  on  a  crust  thankfully,  if  I  could  only 
keep  my  children  with  me."  And  she  looked  round 
at  the  blooming  faces  of  her  girls  with  eyes  brim- 
ming over  with  maternal  fondness. 

Poor  Dulce's  lips  quivered,  and  she  made  a  hor- 
rified gesture. 

"Oh,  mainsie,  don't  talk  so!  I  never  could  bear 
crusts,  unless  they  were  well  buttered.  I  like  every- 
thing to  be  nice,  and  to  have  plenty  of  it — plenty  of 
sunshine,  and  fun,  and  holiday-making,  and 
friends;  and — and  now  you  are  talking  as  though 
we  must  starve,  and  never  have  anything  to  wear, 
and  go  nowhere,  and  be  miserable  forever."  And 
here  Dulce  broke  into  actual  sobs;  for  was  she  not 

5  Other  Girls 


66  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

the  petted  darling?  and  had  she  not  had  a  life  sc, 
gilded  by  sunshine  that  she  had  never  seen  the  dark 
edges  of  a  single  cloud?  So  that  even  Nan  forgot 
Dick  for  a  moment,  and  looked  at  her  young  sister 
pityingly;  but  Phillis  interposed  with  bracing 
severity: 

"Don't  talk  such  nonsense,  Dulce.  Of  course 
we  must  eat  to  live,  and  of  course  we  must  have 
clothes  to  wear.  Aren't  Nan  and  I  thinking  our- 
selves into  headaches  by  trying  to  contrive  how 
even  the  crusts  you  so  despise  are  to  be  bought?" 
which  was  hardly  true  as  far  as  Nan  was  concerned 
for  she  blushed  guiltily  over  this  telling  point  in 
Phillis's  eloquence.  "It  only  upsets  mother  to  talk 
like  this."  And  then  she  touched  the  coals  skil- 
fully, till  they  spluttered  and  blazed  into  fury. 
"There  is  the  Friary,  you  know,"  she  continued, 
looking  calmly  round  on  them,  as  though  she  felt 
herself  full  of  resources.  "If  Dulce  chooses  to  make 
herself  miserable  about  the  crusts,  we  have,  at 
least,  a  roof  to  shelter  us." 

"I  forgot  the  Friary/'  murmured  Nan,  looking 
at  her  sister  with  admiration;  and,  though  Mrs. 
Challoner  said  nothing,  she  started  a  little  as  though 
she  had  forgotten  it  too.  But  Dulce  was  not  to  be 
comforted. 

"That  horrid,  dismal,  poky  old  cottage!"  she 
returned,  with  a  shrill  rendering  of  each  adjective. 
"You  would  have  us  go  and  live  in  'that  damp, 
musty,  fusty  place?" 

Phillis  gave  a  succession  of  quick  little  nods. 

"I  don't  think  it  particularly  dismal,  or  Nan 
either, "  she  returned,  in  her  brisk  way.  Phillis 
always  answered  for  Nan,  and  was  never  contra- 
licted.  "It  is  not  dear  Glen  Cottage,  of  course, 
but  we  could  not  begin  munching  our  crusts  here," 
she  continued,  with  a  certain  grim  humor.  Things 
were  apparently  at  their  worst;  but  at  least  she — 
Phillis — the  clever  one,  as  she  had  heard  herself 
called,  would  do  her  best  to  keep  the  heads  of  the 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  67 

little  family  above  water.  "It  is  a  nice  little  place 
enough,  if  we  were  only  humble  enough  to  see  it; 
and  it  is  not  damp,  and  it  it  our  own,"  running  up 
the  advantages  as  well  as  she  could. 

44 The  Friary!"  commented  her  mother,  in  some 
surprise;  "to  think  of  that  queer  old  cottage  coming 
into  your  head!  And  it  so  seldom  lets.  And  peo- 
ple say  it  is  dear  at  forty  pounds  a  year ;  and  it  is  so 
dull  that  they  do  not  care  to  stay. ' y 

4 'Never  mind  all  that,  mammy, "  returned  Phillis, 
with  a  grave,  business-like  face.  "A  cottage,  rent 
free,  that  will  hold  us,  is  not  to  be  despised;  and 
Hadleigh  is  a  nice  place,  and  the  sea  always  suits 
you.  There  is  the  house,  and  the  furniture  that 
belongs  to  us;  and  we  have  plenty  of  clothes  for  the 
present.  How  much  did  Mr.  Trinder  think  we 
should  have  in  hand?" 

Then  her  mother  told  her,  but  still  mournfully, 
that  they  might  possibly  have  about  a  hundred 
pounds.  *4But  there  are  my  rings  and  that  piece  ot 
point-lace  that  Lady  Fitzroy  admired  so — "  but 
Phillis  waved  away  that  proposition  with  an  impa- 
tient frown. 

44  There  is  plenty  of  time  for  that  when  we  have 
got  through  all  the  money.  Not  that  a  hundred 
pounds  would  last  long,  with  moving,  and  paying 
off  the  servants,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. ' ' 

Then  Nan,  who  had  worn  all  along  an  expression 
of  admiring  confidence  in  Phillis's  resources,  orig- 
inated an  idea  of  her  own. 

4 'The  mother  might  write  to  uncle  Francis,  per- 
haps;" but  at  this  proposition  Mrs.  Challoner  sat 
upright  and  looked  almost  offended.  **My  dear 
Nan,  what  a  preposterous  idea!  Your  uncle 
Francis!" 

44 Well,  mammy,  he  is  our  uncle;  and  I  am  sure 
he  would  be  sorry  if  his  only  brother's  children 
were  to  starve. ' ' 

44  You  are  too  young  to  know  any  better, "  returned 
Mrs,  Challoner,  relapsing  into  alarmed  feebleness: 


68  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"you  are  not  able  to  judge.  But  I  never  liked  my 
brother-in-law — never;  he  was  not  a  good  man. 
He  was  not  a  person  whom  one  could  trust,"  con- 
tinued the  poor  lady,  trying  to  soften  down  certain 
facts  to  her  innocent  young  daughters. 

Sir  Francis  Challoner  had  been  a  black  sheep — a 
very  black  sheep  indeed;  one  who  had  dyed  him- 
self certainly  to  a  most  sable  hue;  and  though,  for 
such  prodigals,  there  may  be  a  late  repentance  and 
much  killing  of  fatted  calves,  still  Mrs.  Challoner 
was  right  in  refusing  to  intrust  herself  and  her 
children  to  the  uncertain  mercies  of  such  a  sinner. 

Now,  Nan  knew  nothing  about  the  sin;  but  she 
did  think  that  an  uncle  who  was  a  baronet  threw 
a  certain  reflected  glory  or  brightness  over  them. 
Sir  Francis  might  be  that  very  suspicious  character, 
a  black  sheep;  he  might  be  landless,  with  the 
exception  of  that  ruined  tenement  in  the  north; 
nevertheless,  Nan  loved  to  know  that  he  was  of 
their  kith  and  kin.  It  seemed  to  settle  their  claims 
to  respectability,  and  held  Mr.  Mayne  in  some 
degree  of  awe ;  and  he  knew  that  his  own  progen- 
itors had  not  the  faintest  trace  of  blue  blood,  and 
numbered  more  aldermen  than  baronets. 

It  would  have  surprised  and  grieved  Nan,  espe- 
cially just  now,  if  she  had  known  that  no  such  glory 
remained  to  her — that  Sir  Francis  Challoner  had 
long  filled  the  cup  of  his  iniquities,  and  lay  in  his 
wife's  tomb  in  some  distant  cemetery,  leaving  a 
certain  red-headed  Sir  Harry  to  reign  in  his 
stead. 

*'I  don't  think  we  had  better  talk  any  more/' 
observed  Phillis,  somewhat  brusquely;  and  then 
she  exchanged  meaning  looks  with  Nan.  The  t\vo 
girls  were  somewhat  dismayed  at  their  mother's 
wan  looks:  her  feebleness  and  uncertainty  of 
speech,  the  very  vagueness  of  her  lamentations, 
filled  them  with  sad  forebodings  for  the  future. 
How  were  they  to  leave  her,  when  they  commenced 
that  little  fight  with  the  world?  She  had  leaned  on 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  69 

them  so  long  that  her  helplessness  had  become  a 
matter  of  habit. 

Nan  understood  her  sister's  warning  glance,  and 
she  made  no  further  allusion  to  Sir  Francis;  she 
only  rose  with  assumed  briskness,  and  took  her 
mother  in  charge. 

44  Now  lam  going  to  help  you  to  bed,  mammy 
darling,"  said  she,  cheerfully.  *4Phillis  is  quite 
right;  we  will  not  talk  any  more  to-night;  we  shall 
want  all  our  strength  for  to-morrow.  We  will  just 
say  our  prayers,  and  try  to  go  to  sleep,  and  hope 
that  things  may  turn  out  better  than  we  expect." 
And,  as  Mrs.  Challoner  was  too  utterly  spent  to 
resist  this  wise  counsel,  Nan  achieved  her  pious  mis- 
sion with  some  success.  She  sat  down  by  the  bed- 
side and  leaned  her  head  against  her  mother's  pil- 
low, and  soon  had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  the 
even  breathing  that  proved  that  the  sleeper  had 
forgotten  her  troubles  for  a  little  while. 

4 'Poor  dear  mother!  how  exhausted  she  must 
have  been!"  thought  Nan,  as  she  closed  the  door 
softly.  She  was  far  too  anxious  and  wide  awake 
herself  to  dream  of  retiring  to  rest.  She  was  some- 
what surprised  to  find  her  sisters'  room  dark  and 
empty  as  she  passed.  They  must  be  still  down- 
stairs, talking  over  things  in  the  fire-light;  they 
were  as  little  inclined  for  sleep  as  she  was.  Phillis's 
carefully  decocted  tea  must  have  stimulated  them 
to  wakefulness. 

The  room  was  still  bright  with  fire-light.  Dulce 
was  curled  up  in  her  mother's  chair,  and  had  evi- 
dently been  indulging  in  what  she  called  44a  good 
cry."  Phillis,  somber  and  thoughtful,  was  pacing 
the  room,  with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head 
— a  favorite  attitude  of  hers  when  she  was  in  any 
perplexity.  She  stopped  short  as  Nan  regarded  her 
with  some  astonishment  from  the  threshold. 

"Oh,  come  in,  Nan;  it  will  be  such  a  relief  to  talk 
to  a  sensible  person.  Dulce  is  so  silly,  she  does 
nothing  but  cry." 


70  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

*4I  can't  help  it,"  returned  Dulce,  with  another 
sob;  "everything  is  so  horrible,  and  Phillis  will 
say  such  dreadful  things." 

44 Poor  little  soul,"  said  Nan,  in  a  sympathetic 
voice,  sitting  down  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  and 
stroking  Dulce's  hair;  "it  is  very  hard  for  her  and 
for  us  all,"  with  a  pent-up  sigh. 

"Of  course  it  is  hard,"  retorted  Phillis,  confront- 
ing them  rather  impatiently  from  the  hearth-rug; 
"it  is  bitterly  hard.  But  it  is  not  worse  for  Dulce 
than  for  the  rest  of  us.  Crying  will  not  mend 
matters,  and  it  is  a  sheer  waste  of  tears.  As  I 
tell  her,  what  we  have  to  do  now  is  to  make  the 
best  of  things,  and  see  what  is  to  be  done  under 
the  circumstances." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  repeated  Nan,  meekly;  but  she 
put  her  arm  round  Dulce,  and  drew  her  head 
against  her  shoulder.  The  action  comforted  Dulce, 
and  her  tears  soon  ceased  to  flow. 

"I  am  thinking  about  mother,"  went  on  Phillis, 
pondering  her  words  slowly  as  she  spoke;  "she 
does  look  so  ill  and  weak.  I  do  not  see  how  we  are 
to  leave  her." 

Mrs.  Challoner's  moral  helplessness  and  dread  of 
responsibility  were  so  sacred  in  her  daughters' 
eyes  that  they  rarely  alluded  to  them  except  in  this 
vague  fashion.  For  years  they  had  shielded  and 
petted  her,  and  given  way  to  her  little  fads  and 
fancies,  until  she  had  developed  into  a  sort  of 
gentle  hypochondriac. 

"Mother  can  not  bear  this;  we  always  keep  these 
little  worries  from  her,"  Nan  had  been  accustomed 
to  say;  and  the  others  had  followed  her  example. 

The  unspoken  thought  lay  heavy  upon  them  now. 
How  were  they  to  prevent  the  rough  winds  of  ad- 
versity from  blowing  too  roughly  upon  their  cher- 
ished charge?  The  roof,  and  perhaps  the  crust, 
might  be  theirs;  but  how  were  they  to  contrive 
that  she  should  not  miss  ner  little  comforts?  They 
would  gladly  work;  but  how,  and  after  what  fashion? 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  71 

Phillis  was  the  first  to  plunge  into  the  unwel- 
come topic,  for  Nan  felt  almost  as  helpless  and  be- 
wildered as  Dulce. 

"We  must  go  into  the  thing  thoroughly,"  began 
Phillis,  drawing  a  chair  opposite  to  her  sisters. 
She  was  very  pale,  but  her  eyes  had  a  certain  bright- 
ness of  determination.  She  looked  too  young  for 
that  quiet  care-worn  look  that  had  come  so  suddenly 
to  her;  but  one  felt  she  could  be  equal  to  any  emer- 
gency. "We  are  down-hearted,  of  course;  but  we 
have  plenty  of  time  for  all  that  sort  of  thing.  The 
question  is,  how  are  we  to  live?" 

"Just  so, "  observed  Nan,  rather  dubiously;  and 
Dulce  gave  a  little  gasp. 

"There  is  the  Friary  standing  empty;  and  there 
is  the  furniture  and  there  will  be  about  fifty  pounds 
perhaps  less,  when  everything  is  settled.  And  we 
have  clothes  enough  to  last  some  time,  and — "  here 
Dulce  put  her  hands  together  pleadingly,  but  Phil 
lis  looked  at  her  severely,  and  went  on:  "Forty  or 
fifty  pounds  will  soon  be  spent,  and  then  we  shall 
be  absolutely  penniless;  we  have  no  one  to  help  us. 
Mother  will  not  hear  of  writing  to  Uncle  Francis ; 
we  must  work  ourselves,  or  starve." 

"Couldn't  we  let  lodgings?"  hazarded  Dulce,  with 
quivering  voice ;  but  Phillis  smiled  grimly. 

"Let  lodgings  at  the  Friary!  why,  it  is  only  big 
enough  to  hold  us.  We  might  get  a -larger  house 
in  Hadleigh;  but  no,  it  would  be  ruinous  to  fail, 
and  perhaps  we  should  not  make  it  answer.  I  can 
not  fancy  mother  living  in  the  basement  story;  she 
would  make  herself  wretched  over  it  We  are  too 
young.  I  don't  think  that  would  answer,  Nan; 
do  you?" 

Nan  replied  faintly  that  she  did  not  think  it 
would.  The  mere  proposition  took  her  breath 
away.  What  would  Mr,  Mayne  say  to  that?  Then 
she  plucked  up  spirit  and  went  into  the  question 
vigorously. 

There  were  too  many  lodging-houses  in  Hadleigh 


72  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

now,  it  would  be  a  hazardous  speculation,  and  one 
likely  to  fail;  they  had  not  sufficient  furniture  for 
such  a  purpose,  and  they  dare  not  use  up  their  little 
capital  too  quickly.  They  were  too  young,  too,  to 
carry  out  such  a  thing.  Nan  did  not  add  "and  too 
pretty,"  though  she  colored  and  hesitated  here. 
Their  mother  could  not  help  them;  she  was  not 
strong  enough  for  house-work  or  cooking.  She 
thought  that  plan  must  be  given  up. 

"We  might  be  daily  governesses,  and  live  at 
home/'  suggested  Dulce,  who  found  a  sort  of  relief 
in  throwing  out  feelers  in  every  direction.  Nan 
brightened  up  visibly  at  this,  but  Phillis's  moody 
brow  did  not  relax  for  a  moment. 

"That  would  be  nice,"  acquiesced  Nan,  "and 
then  mother  would  not  find  the  day  so  long  if  we 
came  home  in  the  evening;  and  she  could  busy 
herself  about  the  house,  and  we  could  leave  her 
little  things  to  do,  and  she  would  not  find  the  hours 
so  heavy.  I  like  that  idea  of  yours,  Dulce;  and  we 
are  all  so  fond  of  children. " 

"The  idea  is  as  nice  as  possible,"  replied  Phillis, 
with  an  ominous  stress  on  the  noun,  "if  we  could 
only  make  it  practicable/' 

"Phil  is  going  to  find  fault,"  pouted  Dulce,  who 
knew  every  inflection  of  Phillis's  voice. 

"Oh,  dear,  no,  nothing  of  the  kind! "she  retorted, 
briskly.  "Nan  is  quite  right;  we  all  dote  on  chil- 
dren. I  should  dearly  like  to  be  a  governess  myself; 
it  would  be  more  play  than  work ;  but  I  am  only 
wondering  who  would  engage  us." 

"Who? — oh,   anybody!"  returned   Nan,    feeling 
puzzled  by  the  smothered  satire  of  Phillis's  speech 
"Of  course  we  are  not  certificated,   and  1  for  one 
could  only  teach  young  children;  but — "  here  Phil- 
lis interrupted  her. 

"Don't  think  me  horrid  if  I  ask  you  and  Dulce 
some  questions,  but  do — do  answer  me  just  as 
though  I  were  going  through  the  catechism;  we 
are  only  girls,  but  we  must  sift  the  whole  thing 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  18 

thoroughly.     Are  we  fit  for  governesses?    what  can 
you  and  I  and  Dulce  teach?" 

41  Oh,  anything!"  returned  Nan,  still  more 
vaguely. 

"My  dear  Nanny,  anything  won't  do.  Come,  I 
am  really  in  earnest;  I  mean  to  catechise  you  both 
thorc  ughly. " 

"Very  well,"  returned  Nan,  in  a  resigned  voice; 
but  Dulce  looked  a  little  frightened.  As  for  Phillis, 
she  sat  erect,  with  her  finger  pointed  at  them  in  a 
severely  ominous  fashion. 

"How  about  history,  Nan?  I  thought  you  could 
never  remember  dates;  you  used  to  jumble  facts  in 
the  most  marvelous  manner.  I  remember  you  insist- 
ing that  Anne  of  Cleves  was  Louis  XII.  's  second 
wife;  and  you  shocked  Miss  Martin  dreadfully  by 
declaring  that  one  of  Marlborough's  victories  was 
fought  at  Cressy." 

"I  never  could  remember  historical  facts,"  re- 
turned Nan,  humbly.  "Dulce  always  did  better 
than  I;  and  so  did  you,  Phillis.  When  I  teach  the 
children  I  can  have  the  book  before  me."  But 
Phillis  only  shook  her  head  at  this,  and  went 
on. 

"Dulce  was  a  shade  better,  but  I  don't  believe 
she  could  tell  me  the  names  of  the  English  sover- 
eigns in  proper  sequence:"  but  Dulce  disdained  to 
answer.  "You  were  better  at  arithmetic,  Nan. 
Dulce  never  got  through  her  rule  of  three;  but  you 
were  not  very  advanced  even  at  that.  You  write  a 
pretty  hand,  and  you  used  to  talk  French,  very  flu- 
ently." 

"Oh,  I've  forgotten  my  French!"  exclaimed  Nan, 
in  a  panic-stricken  voice.  "Dulce,  don't  you  re- 
member we  quite  settled  to  talk  in  French  over  our 
work  three  times  a  week,  and  we  have  always  for- 
gotten it;  and  we  were  reading  Madame  de  Sev- 
igne's  Letters'  together,  and  I  found  the  book  the 
other  day  quite  covered  with  dust  " 

"I  hate  French,"  returnee?   Dulce,   rebelliously. 


74  NOT  LIKE  6f  HER  GIRLS. 

"I  began  German  with  Philiis  and  like  it  much  bet- 
ter." 

"True,  but  we  are  only  beginners, "returned  the 
remorseless  Philiis;  "it  was  very  nice,  of  course, 
and  the  'Taugenichts'  was  delicious,  but  think  how 
many  words  in  every  sentence  you  had  to  hunt  out 
in  the  dictionary  I  am  glad  you  feel  so  competent, 
Dulce;  but  I  could  not  teach  German  myself,  or 
French  either.  I  don't  remember  enough  of  the 
grammar;  and  1  do  not  believe  Nan  does  either, 
though  she  used  to  chatter  so  to  Miss  Martin." 

"Did  I  not  say  she  would  pick  our  idea  to  pieces? 
returned  Dulce,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"My  dear  little  sister,  don't  look  so  dreadfully 
pathetic.  I  am  quite  as  disheartened  and  disap- 
pointed as  you  are.  Nan  says  she  has  forgotten  her 
French,  and  she  will  have  to  teach  history  with  an 
open  book  before  her;  we  none  of  us  draw — no, 
Dulce,  please  let  me  finish  our  scanty  stock  of  ac- 
complishments. I  only  know  my  notes — for  no  one 
cares  to  hear  me  lumber  through  my  pieces — and  I 
sing  at  church.  You  have  the  sweetest  voice,  Dulce, 
but  it  is  not  trained ;  and  I  can  not  compliment  you  on 
your  playing.  Nan  sings  and  plays  very  nicely, 
and  it  is  a  pleasure  to  listen  to  her;  but  I  am  afraid 
she  knows  little  about  the  theory  of  music,  har- 
mony, and  thorough  bass;  you  never  did  know 
anything  in  that  way,  did  you,  Nan?" 

Nan  shook  her  heads  adly.  She  was  too  dis- 
comfited for  speech.  Philiis  looked  at  them  both 
thoughtfully;  her  trouble  was  very  real,  but  she 
could  not  help  a  triumphant  inflection  in  her  voice. 

"Dear  Nan,  please  »do  not  look  so  unhappy. 
Dulce,  you  shall  not  begin  to  cry  again.  Don't  you 
remember  what  mother  was  reading  to  us  the  other 
day  about  the  country  being  flooded  with  incompe- 
tent governesses — half  educated  girls  turned  loose 
on  the  world  to  earn  their  living?  I  can  remember 
one  sentence  of  that  writer,  word  for  word:  'The 
standard  of  education  is  so  high  at  the  present  day, 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  75 

and  the  number  of  certificated  reliable  teachers  so 
much  increased,  that  we  can  afford  to  discourage 
the  crude  efforts  to  teach,  or  un-teach  our  chil- 
dren.1 And  then  he  goes  on  to  ask,  What  has 
become  of  womanly  conscientiousness,  when  such 
ignorance  presses  forward  to  assume  such  sacred 
responsibilities?  Better  the  competent  nurse  than 
the  incompetent  governess.'  'Why  do  these  girls/ 
he  asks,  'who,  through  their  own  fault  or  the  fault 
of  circumstances,  are  not  sufficiently  advanced  to 
educate  others — why  do  they  not  rather  discharge 
the  exquisitely  feminine  duties  of  the  nursery? 
What  an  advantage  to  parents  to  have  their  little 
ones  brought  into  the  earliest  contact  with  refined 
speech  and  cultivated  manners — their  infant  ears 
not  inoculated  by  barbarous  English?'"  but  here 
Phillis  was  arrested  in  her  torrent  of  reflected 
wisdom  by  an  impatient  exclamation  from  Dulce. 

14 Oh,  Nan,  do  ask  her  to  be  quiet!  She  never 
stops  when  she  once  begins.  How  can  we  listen  : 
such  rubbish,  when  we  are  so  wretched?  You  may 
talk  for  hours,  Phil,  but  1  never,  never  will  be  a 
nurse!"  And  Dulce  hid  her  face  on  Nan's  shoul- 
der in  such  undisguised  distress  that  her  sisters  had 
much  ado  to  comfort  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


it  was  hard  work  to  tranquilize  Dulce. 

44I  never,  never  will  be  a  nurse!"  she  sobbed  out 
at  intervals. 

"You  little  goose,  who  ever  thought  of  such  a 
thing?  Why  will  you  misunderstand  me  so?"  sighed 
Phillis,  almost  in  despair  at  her  sister's  impractica- 
bility. "I  am  only  trying  to  prove  to  you  and  Nan 
that  you  are  not  fit  for  governesses. M 

14 No,  indeed;  I  fear  you  are  right  there,"  replied 


76  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 

1  poor  Nan,  who  had  never  realized  her  deficiencies 
before.  They  were  all  bright,  taking  girls,  with 
plenty  to  say  for  themselves,  lady-like  and  well 
bred.  Who  would  have  thought  that,  when 
weighed  in  the  balance,  they  would  have  been 
found  so  wanting?  44I  always  knew  I  was  a  very 
stupid  person;  but  you  are  different — you  are  so 
clever,  Phil!" 

*' Nonsense,  Nanny!  it  is  a  sort  of  cleverness  for 
which  there  is  no  market.  I  am  fond  of  reading. 
1  remember  things,  and  do  a  great  deal  of  think- 
ing; but  I  am  destitute  of  accomplishments;  my 
knowledge  of  languages  is  purely  superficial.  We 
are  equal  to  other  girls — just  young  ladies,  and 
nothing  more;  but  when  it  comes  to  earning  our 
bread  and  butter — "  Here  Phillis  paused,  and 
threw  out  her  hands  with  a  little  gesture  of 
despair. 

44 But  you  work  so  beautifully : and  so  does  Nan," 
interrupted  Dulce,  who  was  a  little  comforted,  now 
she  knew  Phillis  had  no  prospective  nurse-maid 
theory  in  view.  4*I  am  good  at  it  myself,"  she  con- 
tinued, modestly,  feeling  that,  in  this  case,  self- 
praise  was  allowable.  4*We  might  be  companions 
—some  nice  old  lady  who  wants  her  caps  made,  and 
requires  some  one  to  read  to  her,"  faltered  Dulce, 
with  her  child-like  pleading  look.  Nan  gave  her 
a  little  hug;  but  she  left  the  answer  to  Phillis,  who 
went  at  once  into  a  brown  study,  and  only  woke  up 
after  a  long  interval. 

44I  am  looking  at  it  all  around,"  she  said,  when 
Nan  at  last  pressed  for  her  opinion;  <4it  is  not  a  bad 
idea.  I  think  it  very  possible  that  either  you  or  I, 
Nan — or  both,  perhaps — might  find  something  in 
that  line  to  suit  us.  There  are  old  ladies  every- 
where, and  some  of  them  are  rich  and  lonely  and 
want  companions." 

4<You  have  forgotten  me!"  exclaimed  Dulce,  with 
natural  jealousy,  and  a  dislike  to  be  overlooked, 
inherent  in  most  young  people.  "  And  it  is  I  who 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS  77 

have  always  made  mammy's  caps;  and  you  know 
how  Lady  Fitzroy  praised  the  last  one." 

44 Yes,  yes;  we  know  all  that/'  returned  Phillis, 
impatiently.  "You  are  as  clever  as  possible  with 
your  fingers;  but  one  of  us  must  stop  with  mother, 
and  you  are  the  youngest,  Dulce ;  that  is  what  I 
meant  by  looking  at  it  all  round.  If  Nan  and  I 
were  away,  it  would  never  do  for  you  and  mothei 
to  live  at  the  Friary.  We  could  not  afford  a  servant, 
and  we  should  want  the  forty  pounds  a  year  to  pay 
for  bare  necessaries ;  for  our  salary  would  not  be 
very  great  You  would  have  to  live  in  lodgings- 
two  little  rooms,  that  is  all;  and  even  then  I  am 
afraid  you  and  mother  would  be  dreadfully  pinched, 
for  we  should  have  to  dress  ourselves  properly  in 
other  people's  houses." 

"Oh,  Phillis,  that  would  not  do  at  all!"  exclaimed 
Nan,  in  a  voice  of  despair.  She  was  very  pale  by 
this  time,  full  realization  of  all  this  trouble  was 
coming  to  her,  as  it  had  come  to  Phillis.  "What 
shall  we  do?  Who  will  help  us  to  any  decision? 
How  are  you  and  I  to  go  away  and  live  luxuriously 
in  other  people's  houses,  and  leave  mother  and 
Dulce  pining  in  two  shabby  little  rooms,  with  noth- 
ing to  do,  and  perhaps  not  enough  to  eat,  and 
mother  fretting  herself  ill,  and  Dulce  losing  her 
bloom?  I  could  not  rest;  I  could  not  sleep  for 
thinking  of  it.  I  would  rather  take  in  plain  needle- 
work, and  live  on  dry  bread,  if  we  could  only  be 
together,  and  help  each  other." 

"So  would  I,"  returned  Phillis,  in  an  odd,  muffled 
voice. 

"And  I  too,"  rather  hesitatingly  from  Dulce. 

"If  we  could  only  live  at  the  Friary,  and  have 
Dorothy  to  do  all  the  rough  work, "  sighed  Nan, 
with  a  sudden  yearning  toward  even  that  very 
shabby  ark  of  refuge;  "if  we  could  only  be  to- 
gether, and  see  each  other  every  day,  things  would 
not  be  quite  so  dreadful." 

"I  am  quite  of  your  ogijuon,''  was  Phillies  curt- 


7&  NOT  L.KE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

observation;  but  there  was  a  sudden  gleam  in  her 
eyes. 

"I  have  heard  of  ladies  working  for  fancy  shops; 
do  you  think  we  could  do  something  of  that  kind?" 
asked  Nan,  anxiously,  **Even  mother  could  help 
us  in  that;  and  Dulce  does  work  so  beautifully.  It 
is  all  very  well  to  say  we  have  no  accomplishments, ' ' 
went  on  Nan,  with  a  pathetic  little  laugh,  "but  you 
know  that  no  other  girls  work  as  we  do.  We  have 
always  made  our  own  dresses.  And  Lady  Fitzro)r 
asked  me  once  who  was  our  dress-maker,  because 
she  fitted  us  so  exquisitely ;  and  I  was  so  proud  of 
telling  her  that  we  always  did  our  own,  with  Doro- 
thy to  help—" 

"Nan,"  interrupted  Phillis,  eagerly,  and  there 
was  a  great  softness  in  her  whole  mien,  and  her  eyes 
were  glistening — "dear  Nan,  do  you  love  us  ?11  so 
that  you  could  give  up  the  whole  world  for  our 
sakes — for  the  sake  of  living  together,  I  mean?" 

Nan  hesitated.  Did  the  whole  world  involve 
Dick,  and  could  even  her  love  for  her  sister  induce 
her  voluntarily  to  give  him  up?  Phillis,  who  was 
quickwitted,  read  the  doubt  in  a  moment,  and 
hastened  to  qualify  her  words: 

"The  outside  world,  I  mean — mere  conventional 
acquaintances,  not  friends.  Do  you  think  you  could 
bear  to  set  society  at  defiance,  to  submit  to  be  sent 
to  Coventry  for  our  sakes;  to  do  without  it,  in  fact 
to  live  in  a  little  world  of  our  own  and  make  our- 
selves happy  in  it?" 

"Ah,  Phillis,  you  are  so  clever,  and  I  don't  un- 
derstand you,"  faltered  Nan.  It  was  not  Dick  she 
was  to  give  up,  but  what  could  Phillis  mean?  "We 
are  all  fond  of  society ;  we  are  like  other  girls,  I 
suppose.  But  if  we  are  to  be  poor  and  work  for 
our  living,  I  dare  say  people  will  give  us  up." 

" I  am  not  meaning  that,"  returned  her  sister, 
earnestly;  'Mt  is  something  far  harder,  something 
far  more  difficult,  something  that  will  be  a  great 
sacrifice  a$d  cost  us  all  tremendous  efforts.  But  if 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  79 

we  are  to  keep  a  roof  over  our  heads,  if  we  are  to 
live  together  in  anything  like  comfort,  1  don't  see 
what  else  we  can  do,  unless  we  go  out  as  com- 
panions and  leave  mother  and  Dulce  in  lodg- 
ings. 

"Oh,  no,  no;  pray  don't  leave  us!"  implored 
Dulce,  feeling  that  all  her  strength  and  comfort  lay 
near  Nan. 

"I  will  not  leave  you,  dear,  if  I  can  possibly  help 
it,"  returned  Nan,  gently.  "Tell  us  what  you 
mean,  Phillis,  for  I  see  you  have  some  sort  of  plan 
in  your  head.  There  is  nothing — nothing,"  she 
continued,  more  firmly,  "that  I  would  not  do  to 
make  mother  and  Dulce  happy.  Speak  out;  you 
are  half  afraid  that  I  shall  prove  a  coward,  but  you 
shall  see." 

"Dear  Nan,  no;  you  are  as  brave  as  possible.  I 
am  rather  a  coward  myself.  Yes;  I  have  a  plan; 
but  you  have  yourself  put  it  into  my  head  by  saying 
what  you  did  about  Lady  Fitzroy." 

"About  Lady  Fitzroy?" 

"Yes;  your  telling  her  about  our  making  our  own 
dresses.  Nan,  you  are  right;  needle- work  is  our 
forte ;  nothing  is  a  trouble  to  us.  Few  girls  have 
such  clever  fingers,  I  believe;  and  then  you  and 
Dulce  have  such  taste.  Mrs.  Paine  once  told  me 
that  we  were  the  best-dressed  girls  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  she  wished  Carrie  looked  half  as  well, 
am  telling  you  this,  not  from  vanity,  but  because  I 
do  believe  we  can  turn  our  one  talent  to  account. 
We  should  be  miserable  governesses;  we  do  not 
want  to  separate  and  seek  situations  as  lady  helps 
or  companions;  we  do  not  mean  to  fail  letting  lodg- 
ings; but  if  we  do  not  succeed  as  good  dressmakers 
never  believe  me  again." 

"Dressmakers!"  almost  shrieked  Dulce.  But 
Natt,  who  had  expressed  herself  willing  to  take  in 
plaiu  needle- work,  only  looked  at  her  sister  with 
mute  gravity;  her  little  world  was  turned  so  com- 
pletely upside  down,  everything  was  so  unreal,  that 


SO  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

nothing    at    this   moment    could    have    surprised 
her. 

4 'Dressmakers!"  she  repeated,  vaguely. 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  Phillis,  still    more   eagerly. 

The  inspiration  had  come  to  her  in  a  moment, 
full-fledged  and  grown  up,  like  Minerva  from  the 
head  of  Jupiter.  Just  from  those  chance  words  of 
Nan's  she  had  grasped  the  whole  thing  in  a  mo- 
ment. Now,  indeed,  she  felt  that  she  was  clever; 
here  at  least  was  something  striking  and  original; 
she  took  no  notice  of  Dulce's  shocked  exclamation; 
she  fixed  her  eyes  solemnly  on  Nan.  "Yes,  yes; 
what  does  it  matter  what  the  outside  world  says? 
We  are  not  like  other  girls;  we  never  were;  people 
always  said  we  were  so  original.  Necessity  strikes 
out  strange  paths  sometimes.  We  could  not  do 
such  a  thing  here ;  no,  no,  I  never  could  submit  to 
that  myself,"  as  Nan  involuntarily  shuddered;  "but 
at  Hadleigh,  where  no  one  knows  us,  where  we 
shall  be  among  strangers.  And  then,  you  see,  Miss 
Monks  is  dead." 

"Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  what  does  she  mean?"  cried 
Dulce,  despairingly;  "and  what  do  we  care  about 
Miss  Monks,  if  the  creature  be  dead,  or  about  Miss 
Anybody,  if  we  have  got  to  do  such  dreadful 
things?" 

"My  dear,"  returned  Phillis,  with  compassionate 
irony,  "if  we  had  to  depend  upon  you  for  ideas — " 
and  here  she  made  an  eloquent  pause.  "Our  last 
tenant  for  the  Friary  was  Miss  Monks,  and  Miss 
Monks  was  a  dressmaker;  and,  though  perhaps  I 
ought  not  to  say  it,  it  does  seem  a  direct  leading  of 
Providence,  putting  such  a  thought  into  my  head." 
"I  am  afraid  Dulce  and  1  are  very  slow  and 
stupid,"  returned  Nan,  putting  her  hair  rather 
wearily  from  her  face ;  her  pretty  color  had  quite 
faded  during  the  last  half  hour.  "I  think  if  you 
should  tell  us  plainly  exactly  what  you  mean,  Phil- 
lis, we  should  be  able  to  understand  everything 
better/1 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  81 

"My  notion  is  this,"  began  Phillis  slowly,  re- 
member, I  have  not  thought  it  quite  out,  but  1  will 
give  you  my  ideas  just  as  they  occur  to  me.  We 
will  not  say  anything  to  mother  just  yet,  until  we 
have  thoroughly  digested  our  plan.  You  and  I, 
Nan,  will  run  down  to  the  Friary  and  reconnoiter 
the  place,  judge  of  its  capabilities,  and  so  forth;  and 
when  we  come  back  we  will  hold  a  family  council.'* 

44 That  will  be  best,"  agreed  Nan,  who  remem- 
bered, with  sudden  feelings  of  relief  that  Dick  and 
his  belongings  would  be  safe  in  the  Engadine  by 
that  time.  "But,  Phillis.  do  you  really  and  truly 
believe  that  we  could  carry  out  such  a  scheme?" 

"Why  not?"  was  the  bold  answer.  "If  we  can 
work  for  ourselves,  we  can  for  other  people.  I  have 
a  presentiment  that  we  shall  achieve  a  striking 
success.  We  will  make  the  old  Friary  as  comfort- 
able as  possible,"  she  continued,  cheerfully.  "The 
good  folk  of  Hadleigh  will  be  rather  surprised  when 
they  see  our  pretty  rooms.  No  horse-hair  sofa;  no 
crochet  antimacassars  or  hideo  us  waxflowers ;  none 
of  the  usual  stock-in-trade.  Dorothy  will  manage 
the  house  with  us;  and  we  will  all  sit  and  work  to- 
gether, and  mother  will  help  us,  and  read  to  us. 
Aren't  you  glad,  Nan,  that  we  all  saved  up  that 
splendid  sewing-machine?" 

"I  do  believe  there  is  something,  after  all,  in 
what  you  say,"  was  Nan's  response;  but  Dulce  was 
not  so  easily  won  over. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  we  shall  put  up  a  brass 
plate  on  the  door,  with  'Challoner,  Dressmaker/ 
on  it?"  she  observed,  indignantly.  And  a  red 
glow  mounted  to  Nan's  forehead;  and  even  Phillis 
looked  disconcerted. 

"1  never  thought  of  that;  well,  perhaps  not.  We 
might  advertise  at  the  Library,  or  put  cards  in  the 
shops.  I  do  not  think  mother  would  ever  cross  the 
threshold  if  she  saw  a  brass  plate." 

"No,  no;  I  could  not  bear  that,"  said  Nan, 
faintly.  A  dim  vision  of  Disk  standing  at  the 

8  Otfce?  Qirls 


82  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

gate,  ruefully  contemplating  their  name — her  name 
— in  juxtaposition  with  "dressmaker,"  crossed  her 
mind  directly. 

44  But  we  should  have  to  carry  parcels,  and  stand 
in  people's  halls,  and  perhaps  fit  Mrs.  Squails,  the 
grocer's  wife — that  fat  old  thing,  you  know.  How 
would  you  like  to  make  a  dress  for  Mrs.  Squails, 
Phil?"  asked  Dulce,  with  the  malevolent  desire  of 
making  Phillis  as  uncomfortable  as  possible;  but 
Phillis.  who  had  rallied  from  her  momentary  dis- 
comfiture, was  not  to  be  again  worsted. 

"Dulce,  J7ou  talk  like  a  child;  you  are  really  a 
very  silly  little  thing.  Do  you  think  any  work  can 
degrade  us,  or  that  we  shall  not  be  as  much  gen- 
tlewomen at  Hadleigh  as  we  are  here?" 

44 But  the  parcels?"  persisted  Dulce. 

44 1  do  not  intend  to  carry  any,"  was  the  impeturb- 
able  reply.  "Dorothy  will  do  that;  or  we  will  hire 
a  boy.  As  for  waiting  in  halls,  I  don't  think  any 
one  will  ask  me  to  do  that,  as  I  should  desire  to  be 
shown  into  a  room  at  once;  and  as  for  Mrs. 
Squails,  if  the  poor  woman  honors  me  with  her  cus- 
tom, I  will  turn  her  out  a  gown  that  shall  be  the 
envy  of  Hadleigh. " 

Dulce  did  not  answer  this,  but  the  droop  of  her 
lip  was  piteous;  it  melted  Phillis  at  once. 

4 'Oh,  do  cheer  up,  you  silly  girl!"  she  said,  with  a 
coaxing  face.  "What  is  the  good  of  making  our- 
selves more  miserable  than  we  need?  If  you  prefer 
the  two  little  rooms  with  mother,  say  so,  and  Nan 
and  !  will  look  out  for  old  ladies  at  once." 

Oh    no:     Oh,  pray,  don't  leave  me!"  still  more 
piteously. 

"Well,  what  will  you  have  us  to  do?  we  can  not 
starve,  and  we  don't  mean  to  beg.  Pluck  up  a 
little  spirit,  Dulce;  see  how  good  Nan  is!  You 
have  no  idea  how  comfortable  we  should  be!"  she 
went  on,  with  judicious  word-painting.  4<We 
should  all  be  together — that  is  the  great  thing. 
Then  we  could  talk  over  our  work ;  and  in  the  after- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  83 

noon,  when  we  felt  dreary,  mother  could  read  some 
interesting  novel  to  us,"  a  tremendous  sigh  from 
Nan  at  this  point. 

What  a  contrast  to  the  afternoons  at  Glen  Cottage 
— tennis  and  five-o'clock  tea,  and  the  company  of 
their  young  friends!  Phillis  understood  the  sigh, 
and  hurried  on. 

"It  will  be  not  always  work.  We  will  have  long 
country  walks  in  the  evening;  and  then  there  will 
be  the  garden  and  the  sea-shore.  Of  course  we 
must  have  exercise  and  recreation.  1  am  afraid  we 
shall  have  to  do  without  society,  for  no  one  will 
visit  ladies  under  such  circumstances;  but  I  would 
rather  do  without  people  than  without  each  other, 
and  so  would  Nan." 

"Yes,  indeed!"  broke  in  Nan;  and  now  the  tears 
were  in  her  eyes. 

Dulce  grew  suddenly  ashamed  of  herself.  She 
got  up  in  a  little  flurry,  and  kissed  them  both. 

"I  was  very  naughty;  but  I  did  not  mean  to  be 
unkind.  I  would  rather  carry  parcels  and  stand  in 
halls — yes,  and  even  make  gowns  for  Mrs.  Squails 
—than  lose  you  both.  I  will  be  good.  I  will  not 
worry  you  any  more,  Phill,  with  my  nonsense;  and 
I  will  work;  you  will  see  how  I  will  work,"  finished 
Dulce,  breathlessly. 

"There's  a  darling!1'  said  Nan;  and  then  she 
added,  in  a  tired  voice:  "But  it  is  two  o'clock;  and 
Dick  is  coming  this  morning  to  say  good-bye;  and 
I  want  to  ask  you  both  particularly  not  to  say  a 
word  to  him  about  this.  Let  him  go  away  and  en- 
joy himself,  and  think  we  are  going  on  as  usual;  it 
would  spoil  his  holiday;  and  there  is  always  time 
enough  for  bad  news,"  went  on  Nan,  with  a  little 
tremble  of  her  lip. 

"Dear  Nan,  we  understand,"  returned  Phillis, 
gently;  "and  you  are  right,  as  you  always  are. 
And  now  to  bed — to  bed,"  she  continued,  in  a  voice 
of  enforced  cheerfulness;  and  then  they  kissed  each 


Si  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

other  very  quietly  and  solemnly,  and  crept  up  as 
noiselessly  as  possible  to  their  rooms. 

Phillis  and  Dulce  shared  the  same  room;  but  Nan 
had  a  little  chamber  to  herself  very  near  her 
mother's;  a  door  connected  the  two  rooms.  Nan 
closed  this  carefully  when  she  had  ascertained  that 
Mrs.  Challoner  was  still  sleeping,  and  then  sat 
down  by  the  window  and  looked  out  into  the  gray 
glimmering  light  that  preceded  the  dawn. 

Sleep!  How  could  she  sleep  with  all  these 
thoughts  surging  through  her  mind,  and  knowing 
that  in  a  few  hours  Dick  would  come  and  say  good- 
bye? And  here  Nan  broke  down,  and  had  such  a  fit 
of  crying  as  she  had  not  had  since  her  father  died — - 
nervous,  uncontrollable  tears,  that  it  was  useless  to 
stem  in  her  tired,  overwrought  state. 

They  exhausted  her,  and  disposed  her  for  sleep 
She  was  so  chilled  and  weary  that  she  was  glad  to 
lie  down  in  bed  at  last  and  close  her  eyes;  and  she 
had  scarcely  done  so  before  drowsiness  crept  over 
her,  and  she  knew  no  more  until  she  found  the  sun- 
shine flooding  her  little  room,  and  Dorothy  standing 
by  her  bed,  asking  rather  crossly  why  no  one 
seemed  disposed  to  wake  this  beautiful  morning. 

44 Am  I  late?  Oh,  I  hope  1  am  not  late!"  ex- 
claimed Nan,  springing  up  in  a  moment.  She 
dressed  herself  in  quite  a  flurry,  for  fear  that  she 
should  keep  any  one  waiting.  It  was  only  at  the 
last  moment  she  remembered  the  outburst  of  the 
previous  night,  and  wondered  with  some  dismay 
what  Dick  would  think  of  her  pale  cheeks  and  the 
reddened  lines  round  her  eyes,  and  only  hoped  that 
he  would  not  attribute  them  to  his  going  away. 
Nan  was  only  just  in  time,  for  as  she  entered  the 
breakfast-room  Dick  came  through  the  veranda  and 
put  in  his  head  at  the  window. 

44 Not  at  breakfast  yet!  and  where  are  the  others? 
he  asked  in  some  surprise,  for  the  Challoners  were 
early  people,  and  very  regular  in  their  habits. 

"We  sat  up  rather  late  last  night,  talking, "  re* 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  S5 

turned  Nan,  giving  him  her  hand  without  looking 
at  him,  and  yet  Dick  showed  to  advantage  this 
morning  in  his  new  tweed  traveling-suit. 

44 Well,  I  have  only  got  ten  minutes.  I  managed 
to  give  the  pater  the  slip;  he  will  be  coming  after 
me,  I  believe,  if  I  stay  longer.  This  is  first-rate, 
having  you  all  to  myself  this  last  morning.  But 
what's  up,  Nan?  you  don't  seem  quite  up  to  the 
mark.  You  are  palish,  you  know,  and — "  here  Dick 
paused  in  pained  embarrassment.  Were  those 
traces  of  tears?  had  Nan  really  been  crying?  was 
she  sorry  about  his  going  away?  And  now  there 
was  an  odd  lump  in  Dick's  throat. 

.Nan  understood  the  pause,  and  got  frightened. 

"It  is  nothing.  I  have  a  slight  headache;  there 
was  a  little  domestic  worry  that  wanted  putting  to 
rights,"  stammered  Nan;  "it  worried  me,  for  1  am 
stupid  at  such  things,  you  know." 

She  was  explaining  herself  somewhat  lamely,  and 
to  no  purpose,  for  Dick  did  not  believe  her  in  the 
least.  "Domestic  worry!"  as  though  she  cared  for 
such  rubbish  as  that ;  as  though  any  amount  could 
make  her  cry — her,  his  bright,  high-spirited  Nan ! 
No;  she  had  been  fretting  about  their  long  separa- 
tion, and  his  father's  unkindness,  and  the  difficul- 
ties ahead  of  them. 

"I  want  you  to  give  me  a  rose,"  he  said,  sud- 
denly, apropos  of  nothing,  as  it  seemed;  but,  look- 
ing up,  Nan  caught  a  wistful  gleam  in  his  eyes,  and 
hesitated.  Was  it  not  Dick  who  had  told  her  that 
anecdote  about  the  queen,  or  was  it  Lothair?  and 
did  not  a  certain  meaning  attach  to  this  gift?  Dick 
was  forever  picking  roses  for  her;  but  he  had  never 
given  her  one,  except  with  that  meaning  look  on 
his  face. 

"You  are  hesitating,"  he  said,  reproachfully; 
"and  on  my  last  morning,  when  we  shall  not  see 
each  other  for  months.  "  And  Nan  moved  toward 
the  veranda  slowly,  and  gathered  a  crimson  one 
without  a  word,  and  put  it  in  his  hand. 


86  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  quite  quietly;  but  he  de- 
tained the  hand  as  well  as  the  rose  for  a  moment. 
**One  day  I  will  show  you  this  again,  and  tell  you 
what  it  means  if  you  do  not  know;  and  then  we 
shall  see,  ah,  Nan,  my — "  He  paused  as  Phillis's 
steps  entered  the  room,  and  said,  hurriedly,  in  a 
low  voice,  "Good-bye;  I  will  not  go  in  again.  I 
don't  want  to  see  any  of  them,  only  you — only  you. 
Good-bye;  take  care  of  yourself  for  my  sake,  Nan/' 
And  Dick  looked  at  her  wistfully,  and  dropped  her 
hand. 

**Has  he  gone?"  asked  Phillis,  looking  up  in  sur- 
prise as  her  sister  came  through  the  open  window; 
*'has  he  gone  without  finding  anything  out?" 

44  Yes,  he  has  gone,  and  he  does  not  know  any- 
thing "  replied  Nan,  in  a  subdued  voice,  as  she 
seated  herself  behind  the  urn.  It  was  over  now, 
and  she  was  ready  for  anything.  44Take  care  of 
yourself  for  my  sake,  Nan!" — that  was  ringing  in 
her  ears;  but  she  had  not  said  a  word  in  reply. 
Only  the  rose  lay  in  his  hand — her  parting  gift,  and 
perhaps  her  parting  pledge. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

A    LONG   DAY. 

Nan  never  recalled  the  memory  of  that  "long 
gray  day/'  as  she  inwardly  termed  it,  without  a 
shiver  of  discomfort.  Never  but  once  in  her  bright 
young  life  had  *he  known  such  a  day,  and  that  was 
when  her  dead  father  lay  in  the  darkened  house, 
and  her  widowed  mother  had  crept  weeping  into 
her  arms  as  to  her  only  remaining  refuge;  but  that 
stretched  so  far  back  into  the  past  that  it  had 
grown  into  a  vague  remembrance. 

It  was  not  only  Dick  that  was  gone,  though  the 
pain  of  that  separation  was  far  greater  than  she 
would  have  believed  possible,  but  a  moral  earth- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS*  a* 

quake  had  shattered  their  little  world,  involving 
them  in  utter  chaos. 

It  was  only  yesterday  that  she  was  singing  ballads 
in  the  Longmead  drawing-room —only  yesterday; 
but  to-day  everything  was  changed.  The  sun 
shone,  the  birds  sung,  every  one  ate  and  drank  and 
moved  about  as  usual.  Nan  talked  and  smiled,  and 
no  stranger  would  have  guessed  that  much  was 
amiss;  nevertheless,  a  weight  lay  heavy  on  her 
spirits,  and  Nan  knew  in  her  secret  heart  that  she 
could  never  be  again  the  same  light-hearted,  easy- 
going creature  that  she  was  yesterday. 

Later  on  the  sisters  confessed  to  each  other  that 
the  day  had  been  perfectly  interminable ;  the  hours 
dragged  on  slowly,  the  sun  seemed  as  though  it 
never  meant  to  set;  and  to  add  to  their  trouble, 
their  mother  looked  so  ill  when  she  came  down- 
stairs, wrapped  in  her  soft  white  shawl  in  spite  of 
the  heat,  that  Nan  thought  of  sending  for  a  doctor, 
and  only  refrained  at  the  remembrance  that  they 
had  no  right  to  such  luxuries  now  except  in  cases  of 
necessity. 

Then  Dorothy  was  in  one  of  her  impracticable 
moods,  throwing  cold  water  on  all  her  young  mis- 
tress's suggestions,  and  doing  her  best  to  disarrange 
the  domestic  machinery.  Dorothy  suspected  a 
mystery  somewhere;  her  young  ladies  had  sat  up 
half  the  night,  and  looked  pale  and  owlish  in  the 
morning.  If  they  choose  to  keep  her  in  the  dark 
and  not  take  her  into  their  confidence,  it  was  their 
affair;  but  she  meant  to  show  them  what  she 
thought  of  their  conduct.  So  she  contradicted  and 
snapped,  until  Nan  told  her  wearily  that  she  was  a 
disagreeable  old  thing,  and  left  her  and  Susan  to 
do  as  they  liked.  She  knew  Mr.  Trinder  was  wait- 
ing for  her  in  the  dining-room,  and,  as  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner  was  not  well  enough  to  see  him.  she  and  Phil- 
lis  must  entertain  him. 

He  had  slept  at  a  friend's  house  a  few  miles  from 


88  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GlRtS. 

Oldfield,  and  was  to  lunch  at  Glen  Cottage  and  tak<e 
the  afternoon  train  to  London. 

He  was  not  sorry  when  he  heard  that  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner  was  too  indisposed  to  receive  him.  In  spite 
of  his  polite  expressions  of  regret,  he  had  found  the 
poor  lady  terribly  trying  on  the  previous  evening. 
She  was  a  bad  manager,  and  had  muddled  her 
affairs,  and  she  did  not  seem  to  understand  half  of 
what  he  told  her;  and  her  tears  and  lamentations 
when  she  realized  the  truth  had  been  too  much  for 
the  soft-hearted  old  bachelor,  though  people  did 
call  him  a  woman-hater. 

44 But  I  never  could  bear  to  see  a  woman  cry;  it 
is  as  bad  as  watching  an  animal  in  pain,"  he  half 
growled  as  he  drew  out  his  red  pocket-handkerchief 
and  used  it  rather  noisily. 

It  was  easier  work  to  explain  everything  to  these 
two  bright,  sensible  girls.  Phillis  listened  and 
asked  judicious  questions;  but  Nan  sat  with  down- 
cast face,  plaiting  the  table-cloth  between  her  rest* 
less  fingers,  and  thinking  of  Dick  at  odd  intervals. 

She  took  it  all  in,  however,  and  roused  up  in 
earnest  when  Mr.  Trinder  had  finished  his  explana- 
tions, and  Phillis  began  to  talk  in  her  turn;  she  was 
actually  taking  the  old  lawyer  into  her  confidence, 
and  detailing  their  scheme  in  the  most  business-like 
way. 

"The  mother  does  not  know  yet — this  is  all  in 
confidence;  but  Nan  and  I  have  made  up  our  minds 
to  take  this  step,'*  finished  the  young  philosopher, 
calmly. 

44Bless  my  soul!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Trinder — he  had 
given  vent  to  this  expression  at  various  intervals, 
but  had  not  further  interrupted  her.  "Bless  my 
soul!  my  dear  young  ladies,  I  think — excuse  me  if 
I  am  too  abrupt,  but  you  must  be  dreaming." 

Phillis  shook  her  head  smilingly,  and  as  Dorothy 
came  into  the  room  that  moment  to  lay  the  lunch- 
eon, she  proposed  a  turn  in  the  garden,  and  fetched 
Mr.  Trinder's  hat  herself,  and  guided  him  to  a  side- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  89 

walk,  where  they  could  not  be  seen  from  the 
drawing-room  windows.  Nan  followed  them,  and 
tried  to  keep  step  with  Mr.  Trinder's  shambling 
footsteps,  as  he  walked  between  the  girls  with  a 
hot,  perplexed  face,  and  still  muttering  to  himself 
at  intervals. 

"It  is  all  in  confidence,"  replied  Phillis,  in  the 
same  calm  voice. 

4 'And  you  are  actually  serious?  You  are  not 
joking?" 

44  Do  your  clients  generally  joke  when  they  are 
ruined?"  returned  Phillis,  with  natural  exaspera- 
tion. "Do  you  think  Nan  and  I  are  in  such  excel- 
lent spirits  that  we  could  originate  such  a  piece  of 
drollery?  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Trinder,  but  I  must  say 
I  do  not  think  your  remark  quite  well  timed." 
And  Phillis  turned  away  with  a  little  dignity. 

4 'No,  no!  now  you  are  put  out,  and  no  wonder!" 
returned  Mr.  Trinder,  soothingly;  and  he  stood 
quite  still  on  the  gravel  path,  and  fixed  his  keen 
little  eyes  on  the  two  young  creatures  before  him — 
Nan,  with  her  pale  cheeks  and  sad  eyes,  and  Phillis, 
alert,  irritated,  full  of  repressed  energy.  "Dear, 
dear!  what  a  pity!"  groaned  the  old  man;  "two 
such  bonny  lasses!  and  to  think  a  little  management 
and  listening  to  my  advice  would  have  kept  the 
house  over  your  heads,  if  only  your  mother  would 
have  hearkened  to  me!" 

"It  is  too  late  for  all  that  now,  Mr.  Trinder," 
replied  Phillis,  impatiently;  "isn't  it  waste  of  time 
crying  over  spilled  milk  when  we  must  be  taking 
our  goods  to  market?  We  must  make  the  best  of 
our  little  commodities  "  sighed  the  girl.  "If  we 
were  only  clever  and  accomplished,  we  might  do 
better;  but  now — "  and  Phillis  left  her  sentence 
unfinished,  which  was  a  way  she  had,  and  which 
people  thought  very  telling. 

44  But,  my  dear  young  lady,  with  all  your  advant- 
ages, and  — "  Here  Phillis  interrupted  him  rather 
brusquely. 


90  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"What  advantages?  Do  you  mean  we  had  a  gov- 
s?  Well,  v\e  had  three,  one  after  the  other; 
and  they  were  none  of  them  likely  to  turn  out  first- 
rate  pupils.  Oh,  we  are  well  enough,  compared  to 
other  girls;  if  we  had  not  to  earn  our  own  living  we 
should  not  be  so  much  amiss.  But,  Nan,  why  don't 
you  speak?  Why  do  you  leave  me  all  the  hard 
work?  Did  you  not  tell  us  last  night  that  you  were 
not  fit  for  a  governess?" 

Nan  felt  rather  ashamed  of  her  silence  after  this. 
It  w.-ts  true  that  she  was  leaving  all  the  onus  of 
their  plan  on  Phillis,  and  it  was  certainly  time  for 
her  to  come  to  her  rescue.  So  she  quietly  but 
rather  shyly  indorsed  her  sister's  speech,  and 
assured  Mr.  Trinder  that  they  had  carefully  consid- 
ered the  matter  from  every  point  of  view,  and, 
though  it  was  a  very  poor  prospect  and  involved  a 
great  deal  of  work  and  self-sacrifice,  she,  Nan, 
thought  that  Phillis  was  right,  and  that  it  was  the 
best — indeed,  the  only — thing  they  could  do  under 
the  circumstances. 

"For  myself,  I  prefer  it  infinitely  to  letting  lodg- 
ings," finished  Nan;  and  Phillis  looked  at  her  grate- 
fully. 

But  Mr.  Trinder  was  obstinate  and  had  old-fash- 
ioned views,  and  argued  the  whole  thing  in  his 
dictatorial  masculine  way.  They  sat  down  to 
luncheon,  and  presently  sent  Dorothy  away — a 
piece  of  independence  that  bitterly  offended  that 
crabbed  but  faithful  individual  —  and  wrangled 
busily  through  the  whole  of  the  meal. 

Mr.  Trinder  never  could  remember  afterward 
whether  it  was  lamb  or  mutton  he  had  eaten;  he 
had  a  vague  idea  that  Duke  had  handed  him  the 
mint  sauce,  and  that  he  had  declined  it  and  helped 
himself  to  salad.  The  doubt  disturbed  him  for  the 
first  twenty  miles  of  his  homeward  journey.  "Good 
gracious!  for  a  man  not  to  know  whether  he  is 
eating  lamb  or  mutton!"  he  soliloquized,  as  he 
vainly  tried  to  enjoy  his  usual  nap;  "but  then  I 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  91 

never  was  so  upset  in  my  life.  Those  pretty  creat- 
ures, and  Challoners,  too — bless  my  soul!"  And 
here  the  lawyer's  cogitations  became  confused  and 
misty. 

•  Nan,  who  had  more  than  once  seen  tears  in  the 
lawyer's  shrewd  little  gray  eyes,  had  been  very 
gentle  and  tolerant  over  the  old  man's  irritability; 
but  Phillis  had  resented  his  caustic  speeches  some- 
what hotly.  Dulce,  who  was  on  her  best  behavior, 
was  determined  not  to  interfere  or  say  a  word  to 
thwart  her  sisters;  she  even  went  so  far  as  to 
explain  to  Mr.  Trinder  that  they  would  not  have  to 
carry  parcels,  as  Phillis  meant  to  hire  a  boy.  She 
had  no  idea  that  this  magnanimous  speech  was  in  a 
figurative  manner  the  last  straw  that  broke  the 
camel's  back.  Mr.  Trinder  pushed  back  his  chair 
hastily,  made  some  excuse  that  his  train  must  be 
due,  and  beat  a  retreat  an  hour  before  the  time, 
unable  to  pursue  such  a  painful  subject  any  longer. 

Nan  rose  with  a  sigh  of  relief  as  soon  as  the  door 
closed  upon  their  visitor,  and  took  refuge  in  the 
shady  drawing-room  with  her  mother,  whom  she 
found  in  a  very  tearful,  querulous  state,  requiring 
a  great  deal  of  soothing.  They  had  decided  that  no 
visitors  were  to  be  admitted  that  afternoon. 

"You  may  say  your  mistress  is  indisposed  with  a 
bad  headache,  Dorothy,  and  that  we  are  keeping 
the  house  quiet,"  Nan  remarked,  with  a  little 
dignity,  with  the  remembrance  of  that  late  passage 
at  arms. 

4  *  Very  well,  Miss  Nan,"  returned  the  old  servant. 
However,  she  was  a  little  cowed  by  Nan's  manner; 
such  an  order  had  never  before  been  given  in  the 
cottage.  Mrs  Challoner's  headaches  were  common 
events  in  everv-day  life,  and  had  never  been  known 
before  to  interfere  with  their  afternoon  receptions. 
A  little  eau  de  Cologne  and  extra  petting,  a 
stronger  cup  of  tea  served  up  to  her  in  her  bed- 
room, had  been  the  only  remedies;  the  girls  had 
always  had  their  tennis  as  usual,  and  the  sound  of 


92  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

their  voices  and  laughter  had  been  as  music  in  their 
mother's  ears. 

44 Very  well,  Miss  Nan,"  was  all  Dorothy  vent- 
ured to  answer;  but  she  withdrew  with  a  face 
puckered  up  with  anxiety.  She  took  in  the  tea-tray 
unbidden  at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual;  there  were 
Dulce's  favorite  hot  cakes,  and  some  rounds  of 
delicately  buttered  toast,  "for  the  young  ladies 
have  not  eaten  above  a  morsel  at  luncheon,"  said 
Dorothy,  in  explanation  to  her  mistress. 

44 Never  mind  us,"  returned  Nan,  with  a  friendly 
nod  at  the  old  woman;  4*it  has  been  so  hot  to-day." 
And  then  she  coaxed  her  mother  to  eat,  and  made 
believe  herself  to  enjoy  the  repast  while  she  won- 
dered how  many  more  evenings  they  should  spend 
in  the  pretty  drawing-room  on  which  they  had 
expended  so  much  labor. 

Nan  had  countermanded  the  late  dinner,  which 
they  all  felt  would  be  a  pretense  and  mockery;  and, 
as  Mrs.  Challoner's  headache  refused  to  yield  to  the 
usual  remedies,  she  was  obliged  to  retire  to  bed  as 
soon  as  the  sun  set,  and  the  three  girls  went  out 
into  the  garden  and  walked  up  and  down  the  lawn 
with  their  arms  interlaced,  while  Dorothy  watched 
them  from  the  pantry  window,  and  wiped  away  a 
tear  or  two,  as  she  washed  up  the  tea  things. 

"How  1  should  like  a  long  walk!"  exclaimed 
Dulcc.  impatiently.  "It  is  so  narrow  and  confined 
her:  but  it  would  never  do;  we  should  meet 
people." 

44 No.  it  would  never  do,"  agreed  her  sisters,  feel- 
ing a  fresh  pang  that  such  avoidance  was  necessary. 
They  had  never  hidden  anything  before,  and  the 
thought  that  this  mystery  lay  between  them  and 
their  friends  was  exquisitely  painful. 

4<I  feel  as  though  I  never  cared  to  see  one  of 
them  again!"  sighed  poor  Nan,  for  which  speech 
she  was  rather  sharply  rebuked  by  Phillis. 

They  settled  a  fair  amount  of  business  before 
they  went  to  bed  that  night ;  and  when  Dorothy 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  93 

brought  in  the  supper-tray,  bearing  a  little  covered 
dish  in  triumph,  which  she  set  down  before  Nan, 
Nan  looked  at  her  with  grave,  reproachful  eyes,  in 
which  there  was  a  great  deal  of  kindness. 

"You  should  not  do  this,  Dorothy,"  she  said, 
very  gently;  "we  cannot  afford  such  delicacies 
now." 

"It  is  your  favorite  dish,  Miss  Nan,"  returned 
Dorothy,  quite  ignoring  this  remark.  "Susan  has 
cooked  it  to  a  nicety;  but  it  will  be  spoiled  if  it  is 
not  eaten  hot."  And  she  stood  over  them  while 
Nan  dispensed  the  dainty.  "You  must  eat  it  while 
it  is  hot,"  she  kept  saying,  as  she  fidgeted  about 
the  room,  taking  up  things  and  putting  them  down 
again.  Phillis  looked  at  Nan  with  a  comical 
expression  of  dismay. 

"Dorothy,  come  here,"  she  exclaimed,  at  last, 
pushing  away  her  plate.  "Don't  you  see  that 
Susan  is  wasting  all  her  talents  on  us,  and  that  we 
can't  eat  to-day?" 

"Every-one  can  eat  if  they  try,  Miss  Phillis, " 
replied  Dorothy,  oracularly.  "But  a  thing  like  that 
must  be  hot,  or  it  is  spoiled." 

"Oh,  never  mind  about  it  being  hot,"  returned 
Philiis,  beginning  to  laugh.  She  was  so  tired,  and 
Dorothy  was  such  a  droll  old  thing,  and  how  were 
even  stewed  pigeons  to  be  appetizing  under  the 
circumstances?" 

"Oh,  you  may  laugh,"  began  Dorothy,  in  an 
offended  tone;  but  Phillis  took  hold  of  her  and 
nearly  shook  her. 

"Oh,  what  a  stupid  old  thing  you  are!  Don't  you 
know  what  a  silly,  aggravating  old  creature  you 
can  be  when  you  like?  If  I  laugh  it  is  because 
everything  is  so  ludicrous  and  wretched.  Nan  and 
Dulce  are  not  laughing." 

"No,  indeed,"  put  in  Dulce;  "we  are  far,  far  too 
unhappy." 

"What  is  it,  Miss  Nan?"  asked  Dorothy,  sidling 
up  to  her  in  a  coaxing  manner.  "I  am  only  an  old 


94  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

servant;  but  it  was  me  that  put  Miss  Dulce  in  her 
father's  arms — *the  pretty  lamb,'  as  she  called  her, 
and  she  with  a  skin  like  a  lily.  If  there  is  trouble, 
you  would  not  keep  it  from  her  old  nurse, 
surely?" 

"No,  indeed,  Dorothy;  we  want  to  tell  you," 
returned  Nan,  touched  by  this  appeal;  and  then  she 
quietly  recapitulated  the  main  points  that  concerned 
their  difficulties — their  mother's  loss,  their  future 
poverty,  the  necessity  for  leaving  Glen  Cottage  and 
settling  down  at  the  Friary. 

"We  shall  all  have  to  work,"  finished  Nan,  with 
prudent  vagueness,  not  daring  to  intrust  their  plan 
to  Dorothy;  "the  cottage  is  small,  and,  of  course, 
we  can  only  keep  one  servant. " 

"I  dare  say  I  shall  be  able  to  manage  if  you  will 
help  me  a  little,"  returned  Dorothy,  drying  her  old 
eyes  with  the  corner  of  her  apron.  "Dear,  dear! 
to  think  of  such  an  affliction  coming  upon  my 
mistress  and  the  dear  young  ladies!  It  is  like  an 
earthquake  or  a  flood,  or  something  sudden  and 
unexpected — Lord  deliver  us!  And  to  think  of  my 
speaking  crossly  to  you,  Miss  Nan,  and  you  with  all 
this  worry  on  your  mind." 

"We  will  not  think  of  that,"  returned  Nan, 
soothingly.  "Susan's  quarter  will  be  up  shortly, 
and  we  must  get  her  away  as  soon  as  possible.  My 
great  fear  is  that  the  work  may  be  too  much  for 
you,  poor  Dorothy;  and  that — that — we  may  have 
to  keep  you  waiting  sometimes  for  your  wages," 
she  added,  rather  hesitatingly,  fearing  to  offend 
Dorothy's  touchy  temper,  and  yet  determined  to 
put  the  whole  matter  clearly  before  her. 

"I  don't  think  we  need  talk  about  that,"  returned 
Dorothy,  with  dignity.  "I  have  not  saved  up  my 
wages  for  nineteen  years  without  having  a  nest- 
egg  laid  up  for  rainy  days.  Wages — when  I  men- 
tion the  word,  Miss  Nan,"  went  on  Dorothy, 
waxing  somewhat  irate,  "it  will  be  time  enough  to 
enter  upon  that  subject.  I  haven't  deserved  such  a 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  95 

speech,  no,  that  I  haven't/'  went  on  Dorothy,  with 
a -sob  tl  Wages,  indeed!" 

"Now,  nursey,  you  sha'n't  be  cross  with  Nan," 
cried  Dulce,  throwing  her  arms  round  the  old 
woman;  for,  in  spite  of  her  eighteen  years,  she  was 
still  Dorothy's  special  charge.  *4She's  quite  right; 
it  may  be  an  unpleasant  subject,  but  we  will  not 
have  you  working  for  us  for  nothing. " 

"Very  well,  Miss  Dulce,"  returned  Dorothy,  in  a 
choked  voice,  preparing  to  withdraw;  but  Nan 
caught  hold  of  the  hard,  work-worn  hand,  and  held 
her  fast. 

44Oh,  Dorothy,  you  would  not  add  to  our  trouble 
now,  when  we  are  so  terribly  unhappy!  I  never 
meant  to  hurt  your  feelings  by  what  I  said.  If  you 
will  only  go  to  the  Friary  and  help  us  to  make  the 
dear  mother  comfortable,  I,  for  one,  will  be  deeply 
grateful." 

44  And  you  will  not  talk  of  wages?"  asked  Dorothy, 
mollified  by  Nan's  sweet,  pleading  tones. 

44Not  until  we  can  afford  to  do  so,"  returned 
Nan,  hastily,  feeling  that  this  was  a  safe  compro- 
mise, and  that  they  should  be  eked  out  somehow. 
And  then,  the  stewed  pigeons  being  regarded  as  a 
failure,  Dorothy  consented  to  remove  the  supper- 
tray,  and  the  long  day  was  declared  at  an  end. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    FRIARY. 

Oldfield  was  rather  mystified  by  the  Challoners* 
movements.  There  were  absoluely  three  afternoons 
during  which  Nan  and  her  sisters  were  invisible. 
There  was  a  tennis-party  at  the  Paines'  on  one  of 
these  days,  but  at  the  last  minute  they  had  excused 
themselves.  Nan's  prettily  worded  note  was 
declared  very  vague  and  unsatisfactory,  and  on  the 
following  afternoon  there  was  a  regular  invasion  of 


96  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

the  cottage — Carrie  Paine,  and  two  of  the  Twenty- 
man  girls,  and  Adelaide  Sartoris,  and  her  young 
brother  Albert. 

They  found  Dulce  alone,  looking  very  sad  and 
forlorn. 

Nan  and  Phillis  had  gone  down  to  Hadleigh  that 
morning,  she  explained  in  a  rather  confused  way; 
they  were  not  expected  back  until  the  following 
evening. 

On  being  pressed  by  Miss  Sartoris  as  to  the  rea- 
son of  this  sudden  trip,  she  added,  rather  awk- 
wardly, that  it  was  on  business;  her  mother  was  not 
well — oh,  very  far  from  well;  and  they  had  to  look 
at  a  house  that  belonged  to  them,  as  the  tenant  had 
lately  died. 

This  was  all  very  plausible;  but  Dulce's  manner 
was  so  constrained,  and  she  spoke  with  such  hesita- 
tion, that  Miss  Sartoris  was  convinced  that  some- 
thing lay  behind.  They  went  out  into  the  garden, 
however,  and  chose  sides  for  their  game  of  tennis; 
and,  though  Dulce  had  never  played  so  badly  in  her 
life,  the  fresh  air  and  exercise  did  her  good,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  afternoon  she  looked  a  little  less 
drooping. 

It  was  felt  to  be  a  failure,  however,  by  the  whole 
party;  and  when  tea  was  over,  there  was  no  mention 
of  a  second  game.  "No,  we  will  not  stay  any 
longer,"  observed  Isabella  Twentyman,  kissing  the 
girl  with  much  affection.  "Of  course,  we  under- 
stand that  you  will  be  wanting  to  sit  with  your 
mother." 

"Yes,  and  if  you  do  not  come  in  to-morrow  we 
shall  quite  know  how  it  is,"  added  Miss  Sartoris, 
good-naturedly,  for  which  Dulce  thanked  her  and 
looked  relieved. 

She  stood  at  the  hall  door  watching  them  as  they 
walked  down  the  village  street,  swinging  their 
rackets  and  talking  merrily. 

"What  happy  girls!"  she  thought,  with  a  sigh. 
Miss  Sartoris  was  an  heiress,  and  the  Twentymans 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  97 

were  rich,  and  every  one  knew  that  Carrie  and 
Sophy  Paine  would  have  money  "None  of  them 
will  have  to  work,"  said  poor  Dulce,  sorrowfully  to 
herself;  4ithey  can  go  on  playing  tennis  and 
driving  and  riding  and  dancing  as  long  as  they 
like."  And  then  she  went  up  to  her  mother's  room 
with  lagging  footsteps  and  a  cloudy  brow. 

44  You  may  depend  upon  it  there  is  something  amiss 
with  those  Challoners, "  said  Miss  Sartoris,  as  soon 
as  they  were  out  of  sight  of  the  cottage;  44no  one 
has  seen  anything  of  them  for  the  last  three  or  four 
days,  and  I  never  saw  Dulce  so  unlike  herself." 

44 Oh,  I  hope  not,"  returned  Carrie,  gravely,  who 
had  heard  enough  from  her  father  to  guess  that 
there  was  pecuniary  embarrassments  at  the  bottom. 
44Poor  little  thing,  she  did  seem  rather  subdued. 
How  many  people  do  you  expect  to  muster  to- 
morrow, Adelaide?"  and  then  Miss  Sartoris  under- 
stood that  the  subject  was  to  be  changed. 

While  Dulce  was  trying  to  entertain  her  friends, 
Nan  and  Phillis  were  reconnoitring  the  Friary. 

They  had  taken  an  early  train  to  London,  and 
had  contrived  to  reach  Hadleigh  a  little  before 
three.  They  went  first  to  Beach  House — a  small 
unpretending  house  on  the  Parade,  kept  by  a 
certain  Mrs.  Mozley,  with  whom  they  had  once 
lodged  after  Dulce  had  the  measles. 

The  good  woman  received  them  with  the  utmost 
cordiality.  Her  place  was  pretty  nearly  filled,  she 
told  them  proudly:  the  drawing-room  had  been 
taken  for  three  months,  and  an  elderly  couple  were 
in  the  dining-room 

44  But  there  is  a  bedroom  I  could  let  you  have  for 
one  night/'  finished  Mrs.  Mozley,  44and  there  is  the 
little  side  parlor  where  you  could  have  your  tea 
and  breakfast."  And  when  Nan  had  thanked  her, 
and  suggested  the  addition  of  chops  to  their  evening 
meal,  they  left  their  modest  luggage  and  set  out  for 
the  Friary. 

Phillis  would  have  gone  direct  to  their  destina- 

7Girla. 


98  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

tion,  but  Nan  pleaded  for  one  turn  on  the  Parade. 
She  wanted  a  glimpse  of  the  sea,  and  it  was  such  a 
beautiful  afternoon. 

The  tide  was  out,  and  the  long  black  breakwaters 
were  uncovered;  the  sun  was  shining  on  the  wet 
shingle  and  narrow  strip  of  yellow  sand.  The  sea 
looked  blue  and  unruffled,  with  little  sparkles  and 
gleams  of  light,  and  white  sails  glimmered  on  the 
horizon.  Some  boatmen  were  dragging  a  boat 
down  the  beach ;  it  grated  noisily  over  the  pebbles. 
A  merry  party  were  about  to  embark — a  tall  man 
in  a  straw  hat,  and  two  boys  in  knickerbockers. 
Their  sisters  were  watching  them.  "Oh,  Reggie, 
do  be  careful!"  Nan  heard  one  of  the  girls  say,  as 
he  waded  knee-deep  into  the  water. 

"Come,  Nan,  we  ought  not  to  dawdle  like  this!" 
exclaimed  Phillis,  impatiently,  and  they  went  on 
quickly,  past  the  long  row  of  old-fashioned  white 
houses  with  the  green  before  them,  and  that  sweet 
Sussex  border  of  soft  feathery  tamarisk,  and  then 
past  the  cricket-field,  and  down  to  the  whitewashed 
cottages  of  the  Preventive  Station ;  and  then  they 
turned  back  and  walked  toward  the  Steyne,  and 
after  that  Nan  declared  herself  satisfied. 

There  were  plenty  of  people  on  the  Parade,  and 
most  of  them  looked  after  the  two  girls  as  they 
passed.  Nan's  sweet  bloom  and  graceful  carriage 
always  attracted  notice;  and  Phillis,  although  she 
generally  suffered  from  comparison  with  her  sister, 
Was  still  very  uncommon  looking. 

"I  should  like  to  know  who  those  young  ladies 
are,"  observed  a  military-looking  man  with  a  white 
mustache,  who  was  standing  at  the  Library  door 
waiting  for  his  daughter  to  make  some  purchases. 
14 Look  at  them,  Elizabeth;  one  of  them  is  such  a 
pretty  girl,  and  they  walk  so  well." 

"Dear  father,  I  suppose  they  are  only  some  new- 
comers; we  shall  see  their  names  down  in  the  visi- 
tors1 list  by  and  by;"  and  Miss  Middleton  smiled 
as  she  took  her  father's  arm,  for  she  was  slightly 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  99 

lame.  She  knew  strangers  always  interested  him, 
and  that  he  would  make  it  his  business  for  the  next 
few  days  to  find  out  everything  about  them. 

"Did  you  see  that  nice-looking  woman?"  asked 
Phillis,  when  they  had  passed.  "She  was  quite 
young,  only  her  hair  was  gray:  fancy,  a  gray-haired 
girl!" 

"Oh,  she  must  be  older  than  she  looks,"  returned 
Nan,  indifferently. 

She  was  not  looking  at  people;  she  was  far  too 
busily  engaged  identifying  each  well-remembered 
spot. 

There  was  the  shabby  little  cottage,  where  she 
and  her  mother  had  once  stayed  after  an  illness  of 
Mrs.  Challoner's.  What  odd  little  rooms  they  had 
occupied,  looking  over  a  strip  of  garden-ground  full 
of  marigolds!  " Marigolds- all-in-a-row  Cottage/' 
she  had  named  ft  in  her  home  letters.  It  was  nearly 
opposite  the  White  House  where  Mrs.  Cheyne  lived. 
Nan  remembered  her — a  handsome,  sad-looking 
woman,  who  always  wore  black,  and  drove  out  in 
such  handsome  carriages. 

"Always  alone;  how  sad!"  Nan  thought;  and  she 
wondered  as  they  walked  past  the  low  stone  walls 
with  grassy  mounds  sloping  from  them,  and  a  belt 
of  shrubbery  shutting  out  views  of  the  house, 
whether  Mrs.  Cheyne  lived  there  still. 

They  had  reached  a  quiet  country  corner  now; 
there  was  a  clump  of  trees,  guarded  by  posts  and 
chains;  a  white  house  stood  far  back.  There  were 
two  or  three  other  houses,  and  a  cottage  dotted 
down  here  and  there.  The  road  looked  shady  and 
inviting.  Nan  began  to  look  about  her  more  cheer- 
fully. 

"I  am  glad  it  is  so  quiet,  and  so  far  away  from 
the  town,  and  that  our  neighbors  will  not  be  able  to 
overlook  us." 

"I  was  just  thinking  of  that  as  a  disadvantage," 
returned  Phillis,  with  placid  opposition.  "It  is  a 
pity,  under  the  circumstances,  that  we  are  not 


100  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

nearer  the  town."  And  after  that  Nan  held  her 
peace. 

They  were  passing  an  old-fashioned  house  with  a 
green  door  in  the  wall,  when  it  suddenly  opened, 
and  a  tall,  grave-looking  young  man,  in  clerical 
attire,  came  out  quickly  upon  them,  and  then  drew 
back  to  let  them  pass. 

"I  suppose  that  is  the  new  vicar?"  whispered 
Phillis,  when  they  had  gone  a  few  steps.  "You 
know  poor  old  Doctor  Musgrave  is  dead,  and  most 
likely  that  is  his  successor." 

"I  forgot  that  was  the  vicarage,"  returned  Nan. 
But  happily  she  did  not  turn  round  to  look  at  it 
again ;  if  she  had  done  so,  she  would  have  seen  the 
young  clergyman  still  standing  by  the  green  door 
watching  them.  "It  is  a  shabby,  dull  old  house  in 
front;  but  I  remember  that  when  mother  and  I  re- 
turned Mrs.  Musgrave's  call  we  were  shown  into 
such  a  dear  old-fashioned  drawing-room,  with  win- 
dows looking  out  on  such  a  pleasant  garden.  I  quite 
fell  in  love  with  it." 

"Well,  we  shall  be  near  neighbors,"  observed 
Phillis,  somewhat  shortly,  as  she  paused  before 
another  green  door,  set  in  a  long  blank  wall;  "for 
here  we  are  at  the  Friary,  and  I  had  better  just  run 
over  the  way  and  get  the  key  from  Mrs.  Crump." 

Nan  nodded,  and  then  stood  like  an  image  of 
patience  before  the  shabby  green  door.  Would  it 
open  and  let  them  into  a  new,  untried  life?  What 
sort  of  fading  hopes,  of  dim  regrets,  would  be  left 
outside  when  they  crossed  the  threshold?  The 
thought  of  the  empty  rooms,  not  yet  swept  and 
garnished,  made  her  shiver;  the  upper  windows 
looked  blankly  at  her,  like  blind,  unrecognizing 
eyes.  She  was  quite  glad  when  Phillis  joined  her 
again,  swinging  the  key  on  her  little  finger,  and 
humming  a  tune  in  forced  cheerfulness. 

"What  a  dull,  shut-in  place!  I  think  the  name 
of  Friary  suits  it  exactly,"  observed  Nan,  disconso- 
lately, as  they  went  up  the  little  flagged  path  bor- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  101 

dered  with  lilac  bushes.  "It  feels  like  a  miniature 
convent  or  prison:  we  might  have  a  grating  in  the 
door,  and  answer  all  outsiders  through  it." 

"Nonsense!"  returned  Phillis,  who  was  deter- 
mined to  take  a  bright  view  of  things.  "Don't  go 
into  the  house  just  yet;  I  want  to  see  the  garden." 
And  she  led  the  way  down  a  gloomy  side-path,  with 
undipped  box  and  yews,  that  made  it  dark  and 
decidedly  damp.  This  brought  them  to  a,  little 
lawn,  with  tall,  rank  grass  that  might  have  been 
mown  for  hay,  and  some  side-beds  ot  old-fashioned 
flowers,  such  as  lupins  and  monkshood,  pinks  and 
small  pansies;  a  dreary  little  greenhouse,  with  a 
few  empty  flower-pots  and  a  turned-up  box,  was  in 
one  corner,  and  an  attempt  at  a  rockery,  with  a 
periwinkle  climbing  over  it,  and  an  undesirable 
number  of  oyster-shells. 

An  old  medlar-tree,  very  warped  and  gnarled, 
was  at  the  bottom  of  the  lawn,  and  beyond  this  a 
gmall  kitchen-garden,  with  abundance  of  gooseberry 
and  currant  bushes,  and  vast  resources  in  the  shape 
of  mint,  marjoram,  and  lavender. 

"Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  what  a  wretched  little  place 
after  our  dear  old  Glen  Cottage  garden!"  And,  in 
spite  of  her  good  resolutions,  Nan's  gray  eyes  grew 
misty. 

"Comparisons  are  odious,"  retorted  Phillis, 
briskly.  "We  have  just  to  make  the  best  of  things 
— and  I  don't  deny  they  are  horrid — and  put  all  the 
rest  away,  between  lavender,  on  the  shelves  of  our 
memory  "  And  she  smiled  grimly  as  she  picked 
one  of  the  gray  spiky  flowers. 

And  then,  as  they  walked  round  the  weedy  paths, 
she  pointed  out  how  different  it  would  look  when 
the  lawn  was  mown,  and  all  the  weeds  and  oyster- 
shells  removed,  and  the  box  and  yews  clipped,  and 
a  little  paint  put  on  the  greenhouse. 

"And  look  at  that  splendid  passion  flower,  grow- 
ing like  a  weed  over  the  back  of  the  cottage,"  she 
remarked,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand:  "it  only  wants 


102  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

training  and  nailing  up.  Poor  Miss  Monks  has 
neglected  the  garden  shamefully;  but  then  she  was 
always  ailing. " 

They  went  into  the  cottage  after  this.  The 
entry  "was  rather  small  and  dark.  The  kitchen 
came  first;  it  was  a  tolerable-sized  apartment,  with 
two  windows  looking  out  on  the  lilacs  and  the 
green  door  and  the  blank  wall. 

"I  am  afraid  Dorothy  will  find  it  a  little  dull," 
Nan  observed,  rather  ruefully.  And  again  she 
thought  the  name  of  Friary  was  well  given  to  this 
grewsome  cottage;  but  she  cheered  up  when  Phillis 
opened  cupboards  and  showed  her  a  little  scullery, 
and  thought  that  perhaps  they  could  make  it  com- 
fortable for  Dorothy. 

The  other  two  rooms  looked  upon  the  garden ;  one 
had  three  windows,  and  was  really  a  very  pleasant 
parlor. 

"This  must  be  our  work-room,"  began  Phillis, 
solemnly,  as  she  stood  in  the  center  of  the  empty 
room,  looking  round  her  with  bright  knowing 
glances.  4i  Oh,  what  an  ugly  paper,  Nan!  but  we 
can  easily  put  up  a  prettier  one.  The  smaller  room 
must  be  where  we  live  and  take  our  meals;  it  is 
not  quite  so  cheerful  as  this.  It  is  so  nice  having 
this  side- window;  it  will  give  us  more  light,  and 
we  shall  be  able  to  see  who  comes  in  at  the  door." 

44 Yes,  that  is  an  advantage,"  assented  Nan.  She 
was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  such  a  good-sized 
room  in  the  cottage ;  it  was  decidedly  low,  and  the 
windows  were  not  plate  glass,  but  she  thought  that 
on  summer  mornings  they  might  sit  there  very 
comfortably  looking  out  at  the  lawn  and  the  medlar- 
tree. 

4 'We  shall  be  glad  of  these  cupboards,"  she  sug- 
gested, after  a  pause,  while  Phillis  took  out  sundry 
pieces  of  tape  from  her  pocket  and  commenced 
making  measurements  in  a  business-like  manner. 
"  Our  work  will  make  such  a  litter,  and  I  should  like 
things  to  be  as  tidy  as  possible.  I  am  thinking," 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  106 

she  continued,  "we  might  have  mother's  great 
carved  wardrobe  in  the  recess  behind  the  door.  It 
is  really  a  magnificent  piece  of  furniture,  and  in  a 
work  room  it  would  not  be  so  out  of  place;  we  could 
hang  up  the  finished  and  unfinished  dresses  in  it 
out  of  the  dust.  And  we  could  have  the  little  draw- 
ing-room chiffonier  between  the  windows  for  our 
pieces,  and  odds  and  ends  in  the  cupboards.  It  is 
a  pity  our  table  is  round;  but  perhaps  it  will  look 
all  the  more  comfortable.  The  sewing-machine 
must  be  in  the  side- window,"  added  Nan,  who  was 
quite  in  her  element  now,  for  she  loved  all  house- 
wifely arrangements;  "and  mother's  easy-chair  and 
little  table  must  stand  by  the  fire-place.  My  daven- 
port will  be  useful  for  papers  and  accounts." 

"It  is  really  a  very  convenient  room,"  returned 
Phillis,  in  a  satisfied  voice,  when  they  had  exhausted 
its  capabilities;  and,  though  the  second  parlor  was 
small  and  dull  in  comparison,  even  Nan  dropped 
no  disparaging  word. 

Both  of  them  agreed  it  would  do  very  well. 
There  was  a  place  for  the  large  roomy  couch  that 
their  mother  so  much  affected,  and  their  favorite 
chairs  and  knickknacks  would  soon  make  it  look 
cozy;  and  after  this  they  went  upstairs  hand  in 
hand. 

There  were  only  four  bedrooms,  and  two  of  these 
were  not  large;  the  most  cheerful  one  was,  of 
course,  allotted  to  their  mother,  and  the  next  in  size 
must  be  for  Phillis  and  Dulce.  Nan  was  to  have  a 
small  one  next  to  her  mother. 

The  evening  was  drawing  on  by  the  time  they 
had  finished  their  measurements  and  left  the  cot- 
tage. Nan,  who  was  tired  and  wanted  her  tea,  was 
for  hurrying  on  to  Beach  House;  but  Phillis  insisted 
on  calling  at  the  Library.  She  wanted  to  put  some 
questions  to  Miss  Milner.  To-morrow  they  would 
have  the  paper-hanging,  and  look  out  for  a  gardener, 
and  there  was  Mrs.  Crump  to  interview  about  clean- 
ing down  the  cottage. 


104  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  returned  Nan,  wearily,  and  she 
followed  Phillis  into  the  shop,  where  good-natured, 
bustling  Miss  Milner  came  to  them  at  once. 

Phillis  put  the  question  to  her  in  a  low  voice,  for 
there  were  other  customers  exchanging  books  over 
the  counter.  The  same  young  clergyman  they  had 
before  noticed  had  just  bought  a  local  paper,  and 
was  waiting  evidently  for  a  young  lady  who  was 
turning  over  some  magazines  quite  close  to  them. 

"Do  we  know  of  a  good  dress-maker  in  the  place?" 
repeated  Miss  Milner,  in  her  loud,  cheerful  voice, 
very  much  to  Nan's  discomfort,  for  the  clergyman, 
looked  up  from  his  paper  at  once.  "Miss  Monks 
was  a  tolerable  fit,  but,  poor  thing!  she  died  a  few 
weeks  ago;  and  Mrs.  Slasher,  who  lives  over 
Viner's,  the  haberdasher's,  can  not  hold  a  candle  to 
her.  Miss  Masham,  there" — pointing  to  a  smart 
ringletted  young  person,  evidently  her  assistant — 
"had  her  gown  ruined  by  her;  hadn't  you,  Miss 
Masham?" 

Miss  Masham  simpered,  but  her  reply  was  inaud- 
ible ;  but  the  young  lady  who  was  standing  near  them 
suddenly  turned  round. 

"There  is  Mrs.  Langley,  who  lives  just  by.  I 
shall  be  very  happy  to  give  these  ladies  her  address, 
for  she  is  a  widow  with  little  children,  and  I  am 
anxious  to  procure  her  work" — and  then  she  looked 
at  Nan  and  hesitated — "that  is,  if  you  are  not  very 
particular,"  she  added,  with  sudden  embarrass- 
ment, for  even  in  her  morning-dress  there  was  a 
certain  style  about  Nan  that  distinguished  her  from 
other  people. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Drummond,"  returned  Miss 
Milner,  gratefully.  "Shall  I  write  down  the  ad- 
dress for  you,  ma'am?" 

"Yes — no — thank  you  very  much,  but  perhaps  it 
does  not  matter,"  returned  Nan,  hurriedly,  feeling 
awkward  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  But  Phillis, 
who  realized  all  the  humor  of  the  situation,  inter- 
posed : 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  105 

**The  address  will  do  us  no  harm,  and  we  may  as 
well  have  it,  although  we  should  not  trouble  Mrs. 
Langley.  I  will  call  in  again,  Miss  Milner,  to- 
morrow morning,  and  then  I  will  explain  what  it  is 
we  really  want.  We  are  in  a  hurry  now,"  continued 
Phillis,  loftily,  turning  away  with  a  dignified  in- 
clination of  her  head  toward  the  officious  stranger. 

Phillis  was  not  prepossessed  in  her  favor.  She  was 
a  dark,  wiry  little  person,  not  exactly  plain,  but 
with  an  odd,  comical  face;  and  she  was  dressed  so 
dowdily  and  with  such  utter  disregard  of  taste  that 
Phillis  instinctively  felt  Mrs.  Langley  was  not  to 
be  dreaded. 

"What  a  queer  little  body!  Do  you  think  she 
belongs  to  him?"  she  asked  Nan,  as  they  walked 
rapidly  toward  Beach  House. 

"What  in  the  world  made  you  strike  in  after  that 
fashion?"  demanded  the  young  man,  as  he  and  his 
companion  followed  more  slowly  in  the  stranger's 
footsteps.  "That  is  just  your  way,  Mattie,  inter- 
fering and  meddling  in  other  folks'  affairs.  Why 
can  not  you  mind  your  own  business  sometimes," 
he  continued,  irritably,  "instead  of  putting  your 
foot  into  other  people's?" 

"You  are  as  cross  as  two  sticks  this  afternoon, 
Archie,"  returned  his  sister,  composedly.  She  had 
a  sharp  little  pecking  voice  that  seemed  to  match 
her,  somehow;  for  she  was  not  unlike  a  bright- 
eyed  bird,  and  had  quick  pouncing  movements. 
"Wait  a  moment;  my  braid  has  got  torn,  and  is 
dragging." 

"I  wish  you  would  think  a  little  more  of  my  posi- 
tion, and  take  greater  pains  with  your  appearance," 
returned  her  brother,  in  an  annoyed  voice.  "What 
would  Grace  say  to  see  what  a  fright  you  make  of 
yourself?  It  is  a  sin  and  a  shame  for  a  woman  to 
be  untidy  or  careless  in  her  dress;  it  is  unfeminine! 
it  is  unlady-like!"  hurling  each  separate  epithet  at 
her. 

Perhaps  Miss  Drummond  was  used  to  these  com- 


ioe  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

pliments,  for  she  merely  pinned  her  braid  without 
seeming  the  least  put  out. 

"I  think  I  am  a  little  shabby,"  she  remarked, 
tranquilly,  as  they  at  last  walked  on.  "  Perhaps  Mrs. 
Langley  had  better  make  me  a  dress  too,"  with  a 
laugh,  for,  in  spite  of  her  sharp  voice,  she  was  an 
even-tempered  little  body;  but  this  last  remark 
only  added  fuel  to  his  wrath. 

"You  really  have  less  sense  than  a  child.  The 
idea  of  recommending  a  person  like  Mrs.  Langley 
to  those  young  ladies — a  woman  who  works  for 
Miss  Masham!'1 

44 They  are  very  plainly  dressed,  Archie,"  returned 
poor  Mattie,  who  felt  this  last  snub  acutely ;  for, 
if  there  was  one  thing  upon  which  she  prided  her- 
self, it  was  her  good  sense.  ktThey  have  dark  print 
dresses — not  as  good  as  the  one  I  have  on — and 
nothing  could  be  quieter." 

"Oh,  you  absurd  little  goose!"  exclaimed  her 
brother,  and  he  burst  into  a  laugh,  for  the  drollery 
of  the  comparison  restored  him  to  instant  good 
humor.  "If  you  can  not  see  the  difference  be- 
tween that  frumpish  gown  of  yours,  with  its  little 
bobtails  and  fringes,  and  those  pretty  dresses  before 
us,  1  must  say  you  are  as  blind  as  a  bat,  Mattie." 

"Oh,  never  mind  my  gown,"  returned  Mattie, 
with  a  sigh. 

She  had  had  these  home-thrusts  to  meet  and  parry 
nearly  every  day  ever  since  she  had  come  to  keep 
house  for  this  fastidious  brother.  She  was  a  very 
active,  bustling  little  person,  who  had  done  a  great 
deal  of  tough  work  in  her  day;  but  she  never  could 
be  made  to  see  that  unless  a  woman  add  the  graces 
of  life  to  the  cardinal  virtues  she  is,  comparatively 
speaking,  a  failure  in  the  eyes  of  the  other  sex. 

So,  though  Mattie  was  a  frugal  housekeeper,  and 
worked  from  morning  to  night  in  his  service — the 
veriest  little  drudge  that  was  ever  seen — she  was  a 
perpetual  eyesore  to  her  brother,  who  loved  femi- 
nine grace  and  repose— whose  tastes  were  fastidious 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  107 

and  somewhat  arbitrary.  And  so  it  was  poor 
Mattie  had  more  censure  than  praise,  and  wrote 
home  piteous  letters  complaining  that  nothing  she 
did  seemed  to  satisfy  Archie,  and  that  her  mother 
had  made  a  great  mistake  in  sending  her,  and  not 
Grace,  to  preside  over  his  bachelor  establishment. 

44 Oh,  Phillis,  how  shall  we  have  courage  to  pub- 
lish our  plan?"  exclaimed  Nan,  when  they  were  at 
last  discussing  the  much-needed  tea  and  chops  in 
the  little  parlor  at  Beach  House. 

The  window  was  wide  open.  The  returning  tide 
was  coming  in  with  a  pleasant  ripple  and  wash  over 
the  shingle.  The  Parade  was  nearly  empty;  but 
some  children's  voices  sounded  from  the  green  space 
before  the  houses.  The  brown  sail  of  a  fishing  craft 
dipped  into  the  horizon.  It  was  so  cool,  so  quiet, 
so  restful;  but  Nan's  eyes  were  weary,  and  she  put 
the  question  wistfully. 

Phillis  looked  into  the  tea-pot  to  gain  a  moment's 
reprieve;  the  corners  of  her  mouth  had  an  odd 
pucker  in  them. 

**I  never  said  it  was  not  hard,"  she  burst  out  at 
last.  "I  felt  like  a  fool  myself  while  I  was  speak- 
ing to  Miss  Milner;  but  then  that  clergyman  was 
peeping  at  us  between  the  folds  of  his  paper.  He 
seemed  a  nice-looking,  gentlemanly  sort  ot  man. 
Do  you  think  that  queer  little  lady  in  the  plaid  dress 
could  be  his  wife?  Oh,  no;  I  remember  Miss  Mil* 
ner  addressed  her  as  Miss  Drummond.  Then  she 
must  be  his  sister;  how  odd!'* 

"Why  should  it  be  odd?"  remarked  Nan,  ab- 
sently, who  had  not  particularly  noticed  them. 

*'Oh,  she  was  such  a  dowdy  little  thing,  not  a  bit 
nice  looking,  and  he  was  quite  handsome,  and 
looked  rather  distinguished.  You  know  I  always 
take  stock  of  people,  and  make  up  my  mind  about 
them  at  once.  And  then  we  are  to  be  close  neigh- 
bors." 

"I  don't  suppose  we  shall  see  much  of  them,"  was 
Nan's  somewhat  depressed  reply;  and  then,  as 


108  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

they  had  finished  their  tea,  they  placed  themselves 
at  the  open  window,  and  began  to  talk  about  the 
business  of  the  next  day;  and,  in  discussing  cup- 
boards and  new  papers,  Nan  forgot  her  fatigue,and 
grew  so  interested  that  it  was  quite  late  before  they 
thought  of  retiring  to  rest. 


CHAPTER    XL 
"TELL  us  ALL  ABOUT  IT,  NAN." 

Nan  overslept  herself,  and  was  rather  late  the 
next  morning;  but  as  she  entered  the  parlor,  with 
an  exclamation  of  penitence  for  her  tardiness,  she 
found  her  little  speech  was  addressed  to  the  empty 
walls.  A  moment  after,  a  shadow  crossed  the  win- 
dow, and  Phillis  came  in. 

She  went  up  to  Nan  and  kissed  her,  and  there 
was  a  gleam  of  fun  in  her  eyes. 

44 Oh,  you  lazy  girl!"  she  said;  "leaving  me  all 
the  hard  work  to  do.  Do  >ou  know,  I  have  been 
around  to  the  Library,  and  have  had  it  all  out  with 
Miss  Milner;  and  in  the  Steyne  I  met  the  clergy- 
man again,  and-r-would  you  believe  it,  he  looked 
quite  disappointed  because  you  were  not  there?" 

44 Nonsense!"  returned  Nan,  sharply.  She  never 
liked  this  sort  of  joking  speeches;  they  seemed  trea- 
sonable to  Dick. 

<4Oh,  but  he  did,"  persisted  Phillis,  who  was  a 
little  excited  and  reckless  after  her  morning's  work. 
44He  threw  me  a  disparaging  glance,  which"  said,  as 
plainly  as  possible,  4Why  are  you  not  the  other 
one?'  That  comes  from  having  a  sister  handsomer 
than  one's  self." 

44 Oh,  Phillis!  when  people  always  think  you  so 
nice,  and  when  you  are  so  clever!" 

Phillis  got  up  and  executed  a  little  courtesy  in 
the  prettiest  way,  and  then  sunk  down  upon  her 
chair  in  pretende'd  exhaustion. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  109 

"What  I  have  been  through!  But  I  have  come 
out  of  it  alive.  Confess,  now,  that's  a  dear,  that 
you  could  not  have  done  it!" 

"No,  indeed,"  with  an  alarmed  air.  "Do  you 
really  mean  to  say  that  you  actually  told  Miss  Mil- 
ner  what  we  meant  to  do?" 

"I  told  her  everything.  There,  sit  down  and 
begin  your  breakfast,  Nan,  or  we  shall  never  be 
ready.  I  found  her  alone  in  the  shop.  Thank 
goodness,  that  Miss  Masham  was  not  there.  1  have 
taken  a  dislike  to  that  simpering  young  person,  and 
would  rather  make  a  dress  for  Mrs.  Squails  any  day 
than  for  her.  I  told  her  the  truth,  without  a  bit  of 
disguise.  Would  you  believe  it,  the  good  creature 
actually  cried  about  it!  she  quite  upset  me,  too. 
'Such  young  ladies!  dear,  dear!  one  does  not  often 
see  such/  she  kept  saying  over  and  over  again. 
And  then  she  put  out  her  hand  and  stroked  my 
dress,  and  said,  'Such  a  beautiful  fit,  too:  and  tc 
think  you  have  made  it  yourself!  such  a  clever 
young  lady!  Oh,  dear!  what  ever  will  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  and  Miss  Mattie  say?1  Stupid  old  thing  as 
though  we  cared  what  he  said!" 

"Oh,  Phillis!  and  she  cried  over  it?" 

"She  did  indeed.  I  am  not  exaggerating.  Two 
big  round  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  I  could 
have  kissed  her  for  them.  And  then  she  made  me 
sit  down  in  the  little  room  behind  the  shop,  where 
she  was  having  her  breakfast,  and  poured  me  out  a 
cup  of  tea,  and  — "  But  here  Nan  interrupted  her, 
and  there  was  a  trace  of  anxiety  in  her  manner. 

"Poured  you  out  a  cup  of  tea!  Miss  Miller! 
And  you  drank  it?" 

"Of  course,  I  drank  it;  it  was  very  good,  and  I 
was  thirsty." 

But  here  Nan  pounced  upon  her  unexpectedly, 
and  dragged  her  to  the  window. 

"Your  fun  is  only  make-believe;  there  is  no  true 
ting  about  it.  Let  me  see  your  eyes  Oh,  Phil, 
Phil!  I  thought  $o''  You  have  beer  erymg^  too!" 


110  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Phillis  looked  a  little  taken  aback.  Nan  was  too 
sharp  for  her.  She  tried  to  shake  herself  free  a 
little  pettishly. 

"Well,  if  I  choose  to  make  a  fool  of  myself  for 
once  in  my  life,  you  need  not  be  silly  about  it;  the 
old  thing  was  so  upsetting,  and — and  it  was  so  hard 
to  get  it  out."  Phillis  would  not  have  told  for 
worlds  how  utterly  she  had  broken  down  over  that 
task  of  hers;  how  the  stranger's  sympathy  had 
touched  so  painful  a  chord  that,  before  she  knew 
what  she  was  doing,  she  had  laid  her  head  down  on 
the  counter  and  was  crying  like  a  baby — all  the 
more  that  she  had  so  bravely  pent  up  her  feelings 
all  these  days  that  she  might  not  dishearten  her 
sisters. 

But,  as  Nan  petted  and  praised  her,  she  did  tell 
how  good  Miss  Milner  had  been  to  her. 

"Fancy  a  fat  old  thing  like  that  having  such  fine 
feelings/'  she  said,  with  an  attempt  to  recover  her 
sprightliness.  "She  was  as  good  as  a  mother  to 
me — made  me  sit  in  the  easy-chair,  and  brought  me 
some  elder-flower  water  to  bathe  my  eyes,  and  tried 
to  cheer  me  up  by  saying  that  we  should  have 
plenty  of  work.  She  had  promised  not  to  tell  any 
one  just  yet  about  us;  but  when  we  are  really  in 
the  Friary  she  will  speak  to  people  and  recommend 
us;  and" — here  Phillis  gave  a  little  laugh — "we  are 
to  make  up  a  new  black  silk  for  her  that  her  brother 
has  just  sent  her.  Oh,  dear,  what  will  mother  say 
to  us,  Nan?"  And  Phillis  looked  at  her  in  an 
alarmed,  beseeching  way,  as  though  in  sore  need  of 
comfort. 

Nan  looked  grave ;  but  there  was  no  hesitation  in 
her  answer. 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  too  late  to  think  of  that  now, 
Phil,  it  has  to  be  done,  and  we  must  just  go  through 
with  it." 

"You  are  right,  Nanny  darling,  we  must  just  go 
through  with  it,"  agreed  Phillis,  and  then  they 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  Ill 

went  on  with  their  unfinished  breakfast,  and  after 
that  the  business  of  the  day  began. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  they  reached 
home.  Dulce,  who  was  at  the  gate  looking  out  for 
them,  nearly  smothered  them  with  kisses. 

"Oh,  you  dear  things;  how  glad  I  am  to  get  you 
back,"  she  said,  holding  them  both.  "Have  you 
really  only  been  away  since  yesterday  morning?  It 
seems  a  week  at  least!" 

"You  ridiculous  child!  as  though  we  believe  that! 
But  how  is  mother?" 

"Oh,  pretty  well;  but  she  will  be  better  now  you 
are  back.  Do  you  know,"  eyeing  them  both  very 
gravely,  "I  think  it  was  a  wise  thing  of  you  to  go 
away  like  that?  It  has  shown  me  that  mother  and 
I  could  not  do  without  you  at  all;  we  should  have 
pined  away  in  those  lodgings;  it  has  quite  recon- 
ciled me  to  the  plan,"  finished  Dulce,  in  a  loud 
whisper  that  reached  her  mother's  ears. 

"What  plan?  What  are  you  talking  about.  Dulce? 
and  why  do  you  keep  your  sisters  standing  in  the 
hall?"  asked  Mrs.  Challoner,  a  little  irritably.  But 
her  brief  nervousness  vanished  at  the  sight  of  their 
faces;  she  wanted  nothing  more,  she  told  herself, 
but  to  see  them  round  her  and  hear  their  voices. 

She  grew  quite  cheerful  when  Phillis  told  her 
about  the  new  papers,  and  how  Mrs.  Crump  was  to 
clean  down  the  cottage,  and  how  Cramp  had  prom- 
ised to  mow  the  grass  and  paint  the  greenhouse, 
and  Sack  and  Bobbie  were  to  weed  the  garden  paths, 

"It  is  a  perfect  wilderness  now,  mother;  you 
never  saw  such  a  place. " 

"Never  mind,  so  that  it  will  hold  us,  and  that  we 
shall  all  be  together,"  she  returned,  with  a  smile. 
"But  Dulce  talked  of  some  plan;  you  must  let  me 
hear  it,  my  dears;  you  must  not  keep  me  in  the  dark 
about  anything.  I  know  we  shall  all  have  to 
work,"  continued  the  poor  lady.  "But  if  we  be  all 
together,  if  you  will  promise  not  to  leave  me,  I 
think  I  could  bear  anything." 


112  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

•'Are  we  to  tell  her?"  motioned  Nan  with  her  lips 
to  Phillis,  and  as  Phillis  nodded,  "Yes,"  Nan 
gently  and  quietly  began  unfolding  their  plan. 

But,  with  all  her  care  and  all  Phillis'  promptings, 
the  revelation  was  a  great  shock  to  Mrs.  Challoner, 
in  her  weakened  state  she  seemed  hardly  able  to 
bear  it. 

Dulce  repented  bitterly  her  incautious  whisper 
when  she  saw  her  sisters'  tired  faces,  and  their 
fruitless  attempts  to  soften  the  effects  of  such  a 
blow.  For  a  little  while  Mrs.  Challoner  seemed  on 
the  brink  of  despair;  she  would  not  listen;  she 
abandoned  herself  to  lamentations;  she  became  so 
hysterical  at  last  that  Dorothy  was  summoned  from 
the  kitchen  and  taken  into  confidence. 

"Mother,  you  are  breaking  our  hearts,"  Nan  said, 
at  last.  She  was  kneeling  at  her  feet,  chafing  her 
hands,  and  Phillis  was  fanning  her;  but  she  pushed 
them  both  away  from  her  with  weak  violence. 

"It  is  I  whose  heart  is  breaking!  Why  must  I 
live  to  see  such  things?  Dorothy,  do  you  know  my 
daughters  are  going  to  be  dressmakers?  —  my 
daughters,  who  are  Challoners — who  have  been 
delicately  nurtured — who  might  hold  up  their  heads 
with  any  one?" 

"Dorothy,  hold  your  tongue!"  exclaimed  Phillis, 
peremptorily.  "You  are  not  to  speak;  this  is  for 
us  to  decide,  and  no  one  else.  Mammy,  you  are 
making  Nan  look  quite  pale;  she  is  dreadfully  tired, 
and  so  am  I.  Why  need  we  decide  anything  to- 
night? Every  one  is  upset,  and  excited,  and  when 
that  is  the  case  one  can  never  arrive  at  any  proper 
conclusion.  Let  us  talk  about  it  to-morrow,  when 
we  are  rested."  And,  though  Mrs.  Challoner  would 
not  allow  herself  to  be  comforted,  Nan's  fatigue 
and  paleness  were  so  visible  to  her  maternal  eyes 
that  they  were  more  eloquent  than  Phillis'  words. 

"I  must  not  think  only  of  myself*  Yes,  yes,  I 
will  do  as  you  wish.  There  will  be  time  enough  for 
thi*  sort  of  talk  to-morrow,  Dorothy,  will  you  help 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  118 

me?  The  young  ladies  are  tired;  they  have  had  a 
long  journey.  No,  my  dear,  no,"  as  Dulce  passed 
forward;  "I  would  rather  have  Dorothy."  And,  as 
the  old  servant  gave  them  a  warning  glance,  they 
were  obliged  to  let  her  have  her  way. 

44 Mammy  has  never  been  like  this  before," 
pouted  Dulce,  when  they  were  left  alone.  "She 
drives  us  away  from  her  as  though  we  had  done 
something  purposely  to  vex  her." 

44  It  is  because  she  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  us  to- 
night," returned  Phillis,  solemnly.  44It  is  worse 
for  her  than  for  us;  a  mother  feuls  things  for  her 
children  more  than  for  herself;  it  is  nature,  that  is 
what  it  is"  she  finished,  philosophically;  44but  she 
will  be  better  to-morrow."  And  after  this  the 
miserable  little  conclave  broke  up. 

Mrs.  Challoner  passed  a  sleepless  night,  and  her 
pillow  was  sown  with  thorns.  To  think  of  the 
Challoners  falling  so  low  as  thisi  To  think  of  her 
pretty  Nan,  her  clever,  bright  Phillis,  her  pet 
Dulce  coming  to  this.  44Oh,  the  pity  of  it!"  she 
cried,  in  the  dark  hours,  when  vitality  runs  lowest, 
and  thoughts  seem  to  flow  involuntarily  toward  a 
dark  center. 

But  with  the  morning  came  sunshine,  and  her 
girls'  faces — a  little  graver  than  usual,  perhaps,  but 
still  full  of  youth  and  the  brightness  of  energy; 
and  the  sluggish  nightmare  of  yesterday's  grief 
began  to  fade  a  little. 

"Now,  mammy,  you  are  not  going  to  be  naughty 
to-day?"  was  Dulce's  morning  salutation  as  she 
seated  herself  on  the  bed. 

Mrs.  Challoner  smiled  faintly. 

4 'Was  I  very  naughty  last  night,  Dulce?" 

"Oh,  as  bad  as  possible.  You  pushed  poor  Nan 
and  Phillis  away,  and  would  not  let  any  one  come 
near  you  but  that  cross  old  Dorothy,  and  you  never 
bade  us  good-night;  but  if  you  promise  to  be  good, 
I  will  forgive  you  and  make  it  up,"  finished  Dulce, 

g  Other  Q4*Ur 


114  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

with  those  light  butterfly  kisses  to  which  she  was 
addicted 

44  Now,  chatter-box,  it  is  my  turn/'  interrupted 
Phillis,  and  then  she  began  a  carefully  concocted 
little  speech,  very  carefully  drawn  out  to  suit  her 
mother's  sensitive  peculiarities. 

She  went  over  the  old  ground  patiently  point  by 
point.  Mrs.  Challoner  shuddered  at  the  idea  of 
letting  lodgings. 

"I  knew  you  would  agree  with  us,"  returned 
Phillis,  with  a  convincing  nod;  and  then  she  went 
on  to  the  next  clause. 

Mrs.  Challoner  argued  a  great  deal  about  the 
governess  scheme.  She  was  quite  angry  with 
Phillis,  and  seemed  to  suffer  a  great  deal  of  self- 
reproach  when  the  girl  spoke  of  their  defective 
education  and  lack  of  accomplishments.  Nan  had 
to  come  to  her  sister's  rescue;  but  the  mother  was 
slow  to  yield  the  point. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  My  girls  are  not 
different  from  other  girls.  What  would  your  poor 
father  say  if  he  were  alive?  It  is  cruel  to  say  this 
to  me,  when  I  stinted  myself  to  give  you  every  pos- 
sible advantage,  and  I  paid  Miss  Martin  eighty 
pounds  a  year,"  she  concluded  tearfully,* feeling  as 
though  she  were  the  victim  of  a  fraud. 

She  was  far  more  easily  convinced  that  going  out 
as  companions  would  be  impracticable  under  the 
circumstances.  "Oh,  no,  that  will  never  do!"  she 
cried,  when  the  two  liUle  rooms  with  Dulce  were 
proposed;  and  after  this  Phillis  found  her  task  less 
difficult.  She  talked  her  mother  over  at  last  to 
reluctant  acquiescence.  "I  never  knew  how  I  came 
to  consent,"  she  said,  afterward,  "but  they  were 
too  mucn  for  me." 

"We  cannot  starve.  I  suppose  I  must  give  in  to 
you,"  she  said  at  last;  "but  I  shall  never  hold  up 
my  head  again."  And  she  really  believed  what 
she  said 

"Mother,   you   must    trust  us,"  replied    Phillis, 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  lib 

touched  by  this  victory  she  had  won.  "Do  you 
know  what  I  said  to  Dulce?  Work  cannot  degrade 
us.  Though  we  are  dressmakers,  we  are  still  Chal- 
loners.  Nothing  can  make  us  lose  our  dignity  and 
self-respect  as  gentlewomen." 

4 'Other  people  will  not  recognize  it,"  returned 
her  mother,  with  a  sigh.  "You  will  lose  caste. 
No  one  will  visit  you.  Among  you  equals  you  will 
be  treated  as  inferiors  It  is  this  that  bows  me  to 
the  earth  with  shame." 

"Mother,  how  can  you  talk  so?"  cried  Nan,  in  a 
clear,  indignant  voice.  "What  does  it  matter  if 
people  do  not  visit  us?  We  must  have  a  world  of 
our  own,  and  be  sufficient  for  ourselves,  if  we  can 
only  keep  together.  Is  not  that  what  you  have 
said  to  us  over  and  ovex"  again?  Well  we  shall  be 
together,  we  shall  have  each  other.  What  does  the 
outside  world  matter  to  us  after  all?" 

"Oh,  you  are  young;  you  do  not  know  what  com- 
plications may  arise,"  replied  Mrs  Challoner,  with 
the  gloomy  forethought  of  middle  age.  She 
thought  she  knew  the  world  better  than  they,  but 
in  reality  she  was  almost  as  guileless  and  ignorant 
as  her  daughters.  "Until  you  begin,  you  do  not 
know  the  djgeulties  that  will  beset  you,"  she 
went  on. 

But,  notwithstanding  this  foreboding  speech,  she 
was  somewhat  comforted  by  Nan's  words,  "they 
would  be  together!"  Well,  if  Providence  chose  to 
inflict  this  humiliation  and  afflictive  dispensation  on 
her,  it  could  be  borne  as  long  as  she  had  her  chil- 
dren around  her. 

Nan  made  one  more  speech — a  somewhat  stern 
one  for  her  : 

"Our  trouble  will  be  a  furnace  to  try  our  friends. 
We  shall  know  the  true k  from  the  false.  Only 
those  who  are  really  worth  the  name  will  be  faith- 
ful to  us." 

Nan  was  thinking  of  Dick;  but  her  mother  misun- 
derstood her,  and  grew  alarmed. 


116  NOT  LIKE  OTHFR  GIRLS. 

"You  will  not  tell  the  Paines  and  the  other 
people  about  here  what  you  intend  to  do,  surely?  I 
could  not  bear  that!  no,  indeed!  I  could  not  bear 
that!9' 

44 Do  not  be  afraid,  dear  mother,"  returned  Nan, 
sadly;  "we  are  far  too  great  cowards  to  do  such  a 
thing,  and,  after  all,  there  is  no  need  to  put  our- 
selves to  needless  pain.  If  the  Maynes  were  here 
we  might  not  be  able  to  keep  it  from  them,  per- 
haps, and  so  I  am  thankful  they  are  away." 

Nan  said  this  quite  calmly,  though  her  mother 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  her  in  a  most  tenderly  mourn- 
ful fashion  She  had  quite  forgotten  their  Long- 
mead  neighbors,  but  now,  as  Nan  recalled  them, 
she  remembered  Mr.  Mayne,  and  her  look  had 
become  compassionate. 

"It  will  be  all  over  with  those  poor  children,'* 
she  thought  to  herself;  "the  father  will  never 
allow  it — never,  and  I  can  not  wonder  at  him." 
And  then  her  heart  softened  to  the  memory  of 
Dick,  whom  she  hod  never  thought  good  enough 
for  Nan,  for  she  remembered  now  with  a  sore  pang 
that  her  pride  was  laid  low  in  the  dust,  and  that 
she  could  not  hope  now  that  her  daughters  would 
fnake  splendid  matches;  even  Dick  would  be  above 
them,  though  his  father  had  been  in  trade,  and 
though  he  had  no  grandfather  worth  mentioning. 

A  few  days  after  their  return  from  Hadleigh, 
there  was  another  long  business  interview  with 
Mr.  Trinder,  in  which  everything  was  settled.  A 
tenant  had  already  been  found  for  the  cottage.  A 
young  couple,  on  the  eve  of  their  marriage,  who 
had  long  been  looking  for  a  suitable  house  in  the 
neighborhood,  had  closed  at  once  with  Mr.  Trin- 
der's  offer,  and  had  taken  the  lease  off  their  hands. 
The  gentleman  was  a  cousin  of  the  Paines,  and, 
partly  for  the  convenience  of  the  incoming  tenants, 
and  partly  because  the  Challoners  wished  to  move 
as  soon  as  possible,  there  was  only  a  delay  of  a  few 
weeks  before  the  actual  flitting. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  1W 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  dismay  of 
the  neighborhood  when  the  news  was  circulated. 

Immediately  after  their  return  from  Hadleigh, 
Nan  and  Phillis  took  counsel  together,  and,  sum- 
moning up  their  courage,  went  from  one  to  another 
of  their  friends  and  quietly  announced  their 
approaching  departure. 

44  Mot  her  has  had  losses,  and  we  are  now  dread- 
fully poor,  and  we  are  going  to  leave  Glen  Cottage, 
and  go  down  to  a  small  house  we  have  at  Had- 
leigh/' said  Nan,  who  by  virtue  of  an  additional 
year  of  age  was  spokeswoman  on  this  occasion. 
She  had  fully  rehearsed  this  little  speech,  which 
she  intended  to  say  at  every  house  in  due  rotation. 
4 'We  will  not  disguise  the  truth;  we  will  let 
people  know  that  we  are  poor,  and  then  they  will 
not  expect  impossibilities,"  she  said,  as  they 
walked  down  the  shady  road  toward  the  Paines' 
house — for  the  Paines  were  their  most  intimate 
friends  and  had  a  claim  to  the  lirst  confidence. 

*4I  think  that  will  be  sufficient;  no  one  has  any 
right  to  know  more,"  she  continued,  decidedly, 
fully  determined  that  no  amount  of  coaxing  and 
cross-examination  should  wring  from  her  one  un- 
necessary word. 

But  she  little  knew  how  difficult  it  would  be  to 
keep  their  own  counsel.  The  Paines  were  not 
alone;  they  very  seldom  were.  Adelaide  Sartoris 
was  there,  and  the  younger  Miss  Twentyman,  and  a 
young  widow,  a  Mrs  Forbes,  who  was  a  distant 
connection  of  Mrs.  Paine. 

Nan  was  convinced  that  they  had  all  been  talking 
about  them,  for  there  was  rather  an  embarrassed 
pause  as  she  and  Phillis  entered  the  room.  Carrie 
looked  a  little  confused  as  she  greeted  them. 

Nan  sat  down  by  Mrs.  Paine,  who  was  rather 
deaf,  and  in  due  time  made  her  little  speech.  She 
was  rather  pale  with  the  effort,  and  her  voice  falt- 
ered a  little,  but  everv  word  was  heard  at  the  other 
end  of  the  rpom. 


118  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"Leave  Glen  Cottage,  my  dear?  I  can't  have 
heard  you  rightly.  I  am  very  deaf  to-day — very. 
1  think  I  must  have  caught  cold/'  And  Mrs.  Paine 
turned  a  mild  face  of  perplexity  on  Nan;  but, 
before  she  could  reiterate  her  words,  Carrie  was  on 
the  footstool  at  her  feet,  and  Miss  Sartoris,  with  a 
grave  look  of  concern  on  her  handsome  features  was 
standing  beside  her: 

"Oh,  Nan!  tell  us  all  about  it!  Of  course,  we 
saw  something  was  the  matter.  Dulce  was  so 
strange  that  afternoon;  and  you  have  all  been 
keeping  yourselves  invisible  for  ever  so  long." 

"There  is  very  little  to  tell,"  returned  Nan,  try- 
ing to  speak  cheerfully.  "Mother  has  had  bad 
news.  Mr.  Gardiner  is  bankrupt,  and  all  our 
invested  money  is  gone.  Of  course,  we  could  not 
go  on  living  at  Glen  Cottage.  There  is  some  talk, 
Carrie,  of  your  cousin,  Mr.  Ibbetson,  coming  to 
look  at  it;  it  will  be  nice  for  us  if  he  could  take  the 
lease  off  our  hands,  and  then  we  should  go  down  to 
the  Friary." 

"How  I  shall  hate  to  see  Ralph  there — not  but 
what  it  will  suit  him  and  Louisa  well  enough,  1 
dare  say.  But  never  mind  him;  1  want  to  know  all 
about  yourselves,"  continued  Carrie,  affectionately. 
"This  is  dreadful,  Nan!  I  can  hardly  believe  it. 
What  are  we  to  do  without  you?  and  where  is  the 
Friary?  and  what  is  it  like?  and  what  will  you  do 
with  yourselves  when  you  get  there?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  that  is  what  we  want  to  know," 
agreed  Miss  Sartoris,  putting  her  delicately  gloved 
hand  on  Nan's  shoulder;  and  then  Sophy  Paine 
joined  the  little  group  and  Mrs.  Forbes  and  Miss 
Twentyman  left  off  talking  to  Phillis,  and  began 
listening  with  all  their  might.  Now  it  was  that 
Nan  began  to  foresee  difficulties. 

"The  Friary  is  very  small,"  she  went  on,  "but  it 
will  just  hold  us  and  Dorothy.  Dorothy  is  coming 
with  us,  of  course.  She  is  old,  but  she  works  bet- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  lift 

ter  than  some  of  the  young  ones.     She  is  a  faithful 

creature — " 

But  Carrie  interrupted  her  impatiently. 

44  But,  Nan,  what  will  you  do  with  yourselves? 
Hadleigh  is  a  nice  place,  I  believe.  Mamma,  we 
must  all  go  down  there  next  summer,  and  stay 
there — you  shall  come  with  us,  Adelaide — and  then 
we  shall  be  able  to  cheer  these  poor  things  up;  and, 
Nan,  you  and  Phillis  must  come  and  stay  with  us. 
We  don't  mean  to  give  you  up  like  this.  What  does 
it  matter  about  being  poor?  We  are  old  friends 
together.  You  shall  give  us  tea  at  the  Friary,  and 
I  dare  say  there  are  tennis-grounds  at  Hadleigh, 
and  we  will  have  nice  times  together. " 

"Of  course  we  will  come  and  see  you,"  added 
Miss  Sartoris,  with  a  friendly  pressure  of  Nan's 
shoulder,  but  the  poor  girl  only  colored  up  and 
looked  embarrassed,  and  then  it  was  that  Phillis, 
who  was  watching  her  opportunity,  struck  in: 

"You  are  all  very  good,  but",  Carrie,  I  don't 
believe  you  understand  Nan  one  bit.  When  people 
lose  their  money  they  have  to  work.  We  shall  have 
to  put  our  shoulders  to  the  wheel.  We  would  give 
you  tea,  of  course,  but  as  for  paying  visits  and 
playing  tennis,  it  is  only  idle  girls  like  yourselves 
who  have  time  for  that  sort  of  thing.  It  will  be 
work  and  not  play,  I  fear,  with  us." 

"Oh,  Phillis!"  exclaimed  poor  Carrie,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  and  Miss  Sartoris  looked  horrified,  for 
she  had  West  Indian  blood  in  her  veins,  and  was 
by  nature*  somewhat  indolent  and  pleasure-loving. 

44 Do  you  mean  you  will  have  to  be  governesses?" 
she  asked,  with  a  touch  of  dismay  in  her  voice. 

44 We  shall  have  to  work,"  returned  Phillis, 
vaguely.  "When  we  are  settled  at  the  Friary  we 
must  look  round  us  and  do  the  best  we  can. "  This 
was  felt  to  be  vague  by  the  whole  party,  but 
Phillis'  manner  was  so  bold  and  well  assured  that 
no  one  suspected  that  anything  lay  beyond  the 
margin  of  her  speech.  They  had  not  made  up  their 


120  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS* 

minds,  perhaps;  Sir  Francis  Challoner  would  assist 
them;  or  there  were  other  sources  of  help;  they 
must  move  into  the  new  house  first,  and  then  see 
what  was  to  be  done.  It  was  so  plausible,  so  sens- 
ible, that  every  one  was  deceived. 

44 Of  course  you  can  not  decide  in  such  a  hurry; 
you  must  have  so  much  to  do  just  now,"  observed 
Carrie.  44You  must  write  and  tell  us  all  your 
plans,  Phillis,  and  if  there  be  anything  we  can  do  to 
help  you.  Mamma,  we  might  have  Mrs.  Challoner 
here  while  the  cottage  is  dismantled.  Do  spare  her 
to  us,  Nan,  and  we  will  take  such  care  of  her!" 
And  they  were  still  discussing  this  point,  and  try- 
ing to  overrule  Nan's  objections — who  knew  noth- 
ing would  induce  their  mother  to  leave  them — when 
other  visitors  were  announced,  and  in  the  confusion 
they  were  allowed  to  make  their  escape. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
"LADDIE"  PUTS  IN  AN  APPEARANCE. 

**1  think  we  have  managed  that  as  well  as  pos- 
sible!" exclaimed  Phillis,  when  they  found  them- 
selves outside  the  gates.  *4What  a  good  thing 
Adelaide  and  Mrs.  Forbes  and  Lily  were  there! 

Now  we  need  only  call  at  those  three  houses  to 
say  good-bye.  How  hot  you  look,  Nan!  and  how 
they  all  hemmed  you  in!  I  was  obliged  to  come  to 
your  rescue,  you  were  so  beset;  but  I  th[nk  I  have 
put  them  off  the  scent." 

44 Yes,  for  the  present;  but  think,  Phil,  if  Carrie 
really  carries  out  her  intention,  and  all  the  Paine 
tribe  and  Adelaide  come  down  to  Hadleigh  next 
summer!  No  wonder  I  am  hot;  the  bare  idea 
suffocates  me." 

4 'Something  may  turn  up  before  then;  it  is  no 
good  looking  so  far  ahead,"  was  the  philosophical 
rejoinder.  44 Adelaide  is  rather  formidable,  cer- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  121 

tainly,  and,  in  spite  of  her  good  nature,  one  does  not 
feel  at  home  with  her.  There  is  a  flavor  of  money 
about  her,  I  think;  she  dresses,  talks,  and  lives  in 
such  a  gilded  way  one  finds  her  heavy;  but  she 
may  get  married  before  then.  Mr.  Dalrymple  cer- 
tainly seemed  to  mean  it  when  he  was  down  here 
last  winter,  and  he  will  be  a  good  match  for  her. 
Here  we  are  at  Fitzroy  Square.  I  wonder  what 
sort  of  humor  her  ladyship  will  be  in?" 

Lady  Fitzroy  received  them  very  graciously. 
She  had  just  been  indulging  in  a  slight  dispute  with 
her  husband,  and  the  interruption  was  a  welcome  to 
both  of  them;  besides,  she  was  always  gracious  to 
the  Challoners. 

"You  have  just  come  in  time,  for  we  were  boring 
each  other  dreadfully,"  she  said,  in  her  pretty 
languid  way,  holding  out  a  hand  to  each  of  them. 
"Percival,  will  you  ring  the  bell,  please?  I  can  not 
think  why  Thorpe  does  not  bring  up  the  tea  *as 
usual'." 

Lord  Fitzroy  obeyed  his  wife's  behest,  and  then 
turned  with  a  relieved  air  to  his  old  friend  Phillis. 
She  was  the  clever  one ;  and  though  some  people 
called  her  quiet,  that  was  because  they  did  not  draw 
her  out,  or  she  had  no  sympathy  with  them.  He 
had  always  found  her  decidedly  amusing  and  agree- 
able in  the  days  of  his  bachelorhood. 

He  had  married  the  beauty  of  a  season,  but  the 
beauty  was  not  without  her  little  crotchets  and 
tempers;  and,  though  he  was  both  fond  and  proud 
of  his  wife,  he  found  Phillis's  talk  a  relief  this  after- 
noon. 

But  Phillis  was  a  little  distraite  on  this  occasion ; 
she  wanted  to  hear  what  Nan  was  saying  in  a  low 
voice  across  the  room,  and  Thorpe  and  his  subor- 
dinate were  setting  the  tea-table,  and  Lord  Fitzroy 
would  place  himself  just  before  her. 

"Now  look  here,  Miss  Challoner,"  he  was  saying, 
"1  want  to  tell  you  all  about  it;"  but  here  Thorpe 
left  the  room,  and  Lady  Fitzroy  interrupted  them: 


122  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"Oh,  Percival,  what  a  pity!  Do  you  hear — we 
are  going  to  lose  our  nicest  neighbors?  Dear  little 
Glen  Cottage  is  to  be  empty  in  a  week  or  so!" 

"Mr.  Ralph  Ibbetson  will  decide  to  take  it,  I 
think;  and  he  and  Miss  Blake  are  to  be  married  on 
the  sixteenth  of  next  month,"  returned  Nan, 
softly. 

"Ibbetson  at  Glen  Cottage!  that  red-headed  fel- 
low! My  dear  Miss  Challoner,  what  sacrilege — 
what  desecration!  What  do  you  mean  by  forsaking 
us  in  this  fashion?  Are  you  all  going  to  be  mar- 
ried? Has  Sir  Francis  died  and  left  you  a  fortune? 
In  the  name  of  all  that  is  mysterious,  what  is  the 
meaning  of  this?" 

"If  you  will  let  a  person  speak,  Percival,"  re- 
turned his  wife,  with  dignity,  "you  shall  have  an 
answer;"  and  then  she  looked  up  in  his  handsome, 
good-natured  face,  and  her  manner  softened  insens- 
ibly. "Poor  dear  Mrs.  Challoner  has  had  losses! 
Some  one  has  played  her  false,  and  they  are  obliged 
to  leave  Glen  Cottage.  But  Hadleigh  is  a  nice 
place,"  she  went  on,  turning  to  Nan;  "it  is  very 
select." 

"Where  did  you  say,  Evelyn?"  inquired  her  hus- 
band, eagerly.  "Hadleigh,  in  Sussex?  Oh,  that  is 
a  snug  little  place;  no  Toms  and  Harries  go  down 
there  on  a  nine-hours'  trip.  I  was  there  myself 
once,  with  the  Shannontons.  Perhaps  Lady  Fitz- 
roy  and  I  may  run  down  one  day  and  have  a  look  at 
you,"  he  continued,  with  a  friendly  look  at  Phillis. 
It  was  only  one  of  his  good-natured  speeches,  but 
his  wife  took  umbrage  at  it. 

"The  sea  never  agrees  with  me.  I  thought  you 
knew  that,  Percival!"  rather  reproachfully;  "but  I 
dare  say  we  shall  often  see  you  here,"  she  went  on, 
fearing  Nan  would  think  her  ungracious.  "You 
and  the  Paines  are  so  intimate  that  they  are  sure  to 
have  you  for  weeks  together;  it  is  so  pleasant  re- 
visiting an  old  neighborhood,  is  it  not?  I  know  I 
always  feel  that  with  regard  to  Nuneaton." 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  1Z3 

"Nuneaton  never  suits  my  constitution.  I 
thought  you  would  have  remembered  that,  Evelyn, 
returned  her  husband,  gravely;  and  then  they  both 
laughed.  Lord  Fitzroy  was  not  without  a  sense  of 
humor,  and  often  restored  amity  by  a  joking  word 
after  this  fashion,  and  then  the  conversation  pro- 
ceeded more  smoothly. 

Nan  and  Phillis  felt  far  more  at  their  ease  here 
than  they  had  felt  at  the  Paines*.  There  were  no 
awkward  questions  asked:  Lady  Fitzroy  was  far  too 
well  bred  for  that.  If  she  wondered  at  all  how  the 
Challoners  were  to  live  after  they  had  lost  their 
money,  she  kept  such  remarks  for  her  husband's 
private  ear. 

"Those  girls  ought  to  marry  well,"  observed 
Lord  Fitzroy  when  he  found  himself  alone  again 
with  his  wife.  "Miss  Challoner  is  as  pretty  a  creat- 
ure as  one  need  see,  but  Miss  Phillis  has  the  most 
in  her." 

"How  are  they  to  meet  people  if  they  are  going 
to  bury  themselves  in  a  little  sea-side  place?"  she 
returned,  regretfully.  "Shall  I  put  on  my  habit 
now,  Percy?  do  you  think  it  will  be  cool  enough  for 
our  ride?" 

"Yes,  run  along,  my  pet,  and  don't  keep  me  too 
long  waiting. "  Nevertheless,  Lord  Fitzroy  did  not 
object  when  his  wife  made  room  for  him  a  moment 
beside  her  on  the  couch,  while  she  made  it  up  to 
him  for  her  cross  speeches,  as  she  told  him. 

"There,  little  mother,  it  is  all  done!"  exclaimed 
Phillis,  in  a  tone  of  triumph,  as  later  on  in  the 
afternoon  they  returned  to  the  cottage;  but,  in  spite 
of  her  bravado,  both  the  girls  looked  terribly  jaded, 
and  Nan  especially  seemed  out  of  spirits,  but  then 
they  had  been  round  the  Longmead  garden,  and 
had  gathered  some  flowers  in  the  conservatory,  and 
this  alone  would  have  been  depressing  for  Nan. 

From  that  time  they  lived  in  a  perpetual  whirl,  a 
bustle  of  activity  that  grew  greater,  and  not  less, 
from  day  to  day.  Mrs.  Challoner  had  quietly  but 


124  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

decidedly  refused  the  Paines'  invitation.  Nan  was 
right;  nothing  would  have  induced  her  to  leave  her 
girls  in  their  trouble:  she  made  light  of  their  dis- 
comfort, forgot  her  invalid  airs,  and  persisted  in 
fatiguing  herself  to  an  alarming  extent. 

14 You  must  let  me  do  things;  I  should  be 
wretched  to  sit  with  my  hands  before  me,  and  not 
help  you, "  she  said,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and 
when  they  appealed  in  desperation  to  Dorothy,  she 
took  her  mistress's  side : 

"  Working  hurts  less  than  worrying.  Don't  you 
be  fretting  about  the  mistress  too  much,  or  watch- 
ing her  too  closely.  It  will  do  her  no  harm,  take 
my  word  for  it. "  And  Dorothy  was  right. 

But  there  was  one  piece  of  work  that  Nan  set  her 
mother  to  do  before  they  left  the  cottage. 

"Mother,"  she  said  to  her  one  day  when  they 
were  alone  together,  "Mrs.  Mayne  will  be  wonder- 
ing why  you  do  not  answer  her  letter.  I  think  you 
had  better  write,  and  tell  her  a  little  about  things. 
We  must  not  put  it  off  any  longer,  or  she  will  be 
hurt  with  us."  And  Mrs.  Challoner  ver^ reluc- 
tantly set  about  her  unpleasant  task. 

But  after  all,  it  was  Nan  who  furnished  the 
greater  part  of  the  composition.  Mrs.  Challoner 
was  rather  verbose  and  descriptive  in  her  style. 
Nan  cut  down  her  sentences  ruthlessly,  and  so 
pruned  and  simplified  the  whole  epistle  that  the 
mother  failed  to  trace  her  own  handiwork,  and  at 
last  she  added  a  postscript  to  her  own  pretty  hand- 
writing. 

Mrs.  Challoner  was  rather  dissatisfied  with  the 
whole  thing. 

44 You  have  said  so  little,  Nan!  Mrs.  Mayne  will 
be  quite  affronted  at  our  reticence." 

"What  is  the  use  of  harrowing  people's  feelings?" 
was  Nan's  response. 

It  was  quite  true  she  had  dwelt  as  little  as  pos- 
sible on  their  troubles. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  125 

The  few  opening  sentences  had  related  solely  to 
their  friends*  affairs. 

"You  will  be  sorry  to  hear,'1  Mrs.  Challoner 
wrote  after  this,  "that  I  have  met  with  some  severe 
losses.  I  dare  say  Mr.  Mayne  will  remember  that 
my  poor  husband  invested  our  little  income  in  the 
business  of  his  cousin  Mark  Gardiner.  We  have 
just  heard  the  unwelcome  news  that  Gardiner  & 
Fowler  have  failed  for  a  large  amount.  Under 
these  circumstances,  we  think  it  more  prudent  to 
leave  Glen  Cottage  as  soon  as  possible,  and  settle  at 
Hadleigh,  where  we  have  a  small  house  belonging 
to  us  called  the  Friary.  Fortunately  for  us,  Mr. 
Trinder  has  found  us  a  tenant,  who  will  take  the 
remainder  of  the  lease  off  our  hands.  Do  you  re- 
member Mr.  Ralph  Ibbetson,  the  Paines*  cousin, 
that  rather  heavy-looking  young  man,  with  reddish 
hair,  who  was  engaged  to  that  pretty  Miss  Blake — 
well,  he  has  taken  Glen  Cottage;  and  I  hope  you 
will  find  them  nice  neighbors.  Tell  Dick  he  must 
not  be  too  sorry  to  miss  his  old  friends;  but  of 
course^you  will  understand  this  is  a  sad  break  to  us. 
Settling  down  in  a  new  place  is  never  very  pleasant; 
and,  as  my  girls  will  have  to  help  themselves,  and 
we  shall  all  have  to  learn  to  do  without  things,  it 
will  be  somewhat  Of  a  discipline  to  us;  but  as  long 
as  we  are  together,  we  all  feel  such  difficulties  can 
be  easily  borne. 

"Tell  Mr.  Mayne  that,  if  I  had  foreseen  how 
things  were  to  turn  out,  I  would  have  conquered 
my  indisposition,  and  not  have  forfeited  my  last 
evening  at  Longmead." 

And  in  the  postscript  Nan  wrote  hurriedly: 

"You  must  not  be  too  sorry  for  us,  dear  Mrs. 
Mayne,  for  mother  is  as  brave  as  possible,  and  we 
are  all  determined  to  make  the  best  of  things. 

"Of  course  it  is  very  sad  leaving  dear  Glen  Cot- 
tage, where  we  have  spent  such  happy  days;  but 
though  the  Friary  is  small,  we  shall  make  it  very 
comfortable.  Tell  Dick  the  garden  is  a  perfect 


126  NOT  LIKE  OTHJbR  GIRLS. 

wilderness  at  present,  and  that  there  are  no  roses- 
only  a  splendid  passion  flower  that  covers  the  whole 
back  of  the  house." 

Nan  never  knew  why  she  wrote  this.  Was  it  to 
remind  him  vaguely  that  the  time  of  roses  was 
over,  and  that  from  this  day  things  would  be  differ- 
ent with  them? 

Nan  was  quite  satisfied  when  she  had  dispatched 
this  letter.  It  told  just  enough,  and  not  too  much. 
It  sorely  perplexed  and  troubled  Dick ;  and  yet 
neither  he  nor  his  father  had  the  least  idea  how 
things  really  were  with  the  Challoners. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  so,  Bessie?"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Mayne,  almost  in  a  voice  of  triumph,  as  he  struck 
his  hand  upon  the  letter.  **  Paine  was  right  when 
he  spoke  of  a  shaky  investment.  That  comes  of 
women  pretending  to  understand  business.  A 
pretty  mess  they  seem  to  have  made  of  it!" 

** Mother,"  said  poor  Dick,  coming  up  to  her 
when  he  found  himself  alone  with  her  for  a  mo- 
ment. "I  don't  understand  this  letter.  I  can  not 
read  between  the  lines,  somehow,  and  yet  there 
seems  something  more  than  meets  the  eye." 

*'I  am  sure  it  is  bad  enough,"  returned  Mrs. 
Mayne,  who  had  been  quietly  crying  over  Nan's 
postscript.  '*  Think  of  them  leaving  Glen  Cottage, 
and  of  these  poor  dear  girls  having  to  make  them- 
selves useful!" 

"It  is  just  that  that  bothers  me  so,"  replied  Dick, 
with  a  frowning  brow.  "The  letter  tells  us  so  lit- 
tle; it  is  so  constrained  in  tone;  as  though  they) 
were  keeping  something  from  us.  Of  course  they 
have  something  to  live  upon,  but  I  am  afraid  it  is 
very  little." 

"Very  likely  they  will  only  have  one  servant- 
just  Dorothy  and  no  one  else;  and  the  girls  will 
have  to  help  in  the  house,"  returned  his  mother, 
thoughtfully.  "That  will  not  do  them  any  harm, 
Dick;  it  always  improves  girls  to  make  them  useful. 
I  dare  ?ay  the  Friary  is  a  very  small  place,  and 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  127 

then  I  am  sure,  with  a  little  help,  Dorothy  will  do 
very  well." 

"But,  mother, "pleaded  Dick,  who  was  somewhat 
comforted  by  this  sensible  view  of  the  matter,  "do 
write  to  Nan  or  Phillis,  and  beg  of  them  to  give  us 
fuller  particulars."  And,  though  Mrs.  Mayne 
promised  she  would  do  so,  and  kept  her  word, 
Dick  was  not  satisfied,  but  sat  down  and  scrawled  a 
long  letter  to  Mrs.  Challoner,  so  incoherent  in  its 
expressions  of  sympathy  and  regret  that  it  quite 
mystified  her;  but  Nan  thought  it  perfect,  and  took 
possession  of  it;  and  read  it  every  day,  until  it  got 
quite  thin  and  worn.  One  sentence  especially 
pleased  her.  "I  don't  intend  ever  to  cross  the 
threshold  of  the  cottage  again,"  wrote  Dick;  "in 
fact,  Oldfield  will  be  hateful  without  you  all.  Of 
course  I  shall  run  down  to  Hadleigh  at  Christmas, 
and  look  you  up,  and  see  for  myself  what  sort  of  a 
place  the  Friary  is.  Tell  Nan  I  will  get  her  lots  of 
roses  for  her  garden,  so  she  need  not  trouble  about 
that;  and  give  them  my  love,  and  tell  them  how 
awfully  sorry  I  am  about  it  all." 

Poor  Dick!  the  news  of  his  friends'  misfortune 
took  off  the  edge  of  his  enjoyment  for  a  long  time. 
Thanks  to  Nan's  unselfishness,  he  did  not  in  the 
least  realize  the  true  state  of  affairs;  nevertheless, 
his  honest  heart  was  heavy  at  the  thought  of  the 
empty  cottage,  and  he  was  quite  right  in  saying 
Oldfield  had  grown  suddenly  hateful  to  him,  and, 
though  he  kept  these  thoughts  to  himself  as  much 
as  possible,  Mr.  Mayne  saw  that  his  son  was  de- 
pressed and  ill  at  ease,  and  sent  him  away  to  the 
Swiss  Tyrol,  with  a  gay  party  of  young  people, 
hoping  a  few  weeks'  change  would  put  the  Chal- 
loners  out  of  his  head.  Meanwhile,  Nan  and  her 
Bisters  worked  busily,  and  their  friends  crowded 
rbund  them,  helping  or  hindering,  according  to 
their  nature. 

On  the  last  afternoon  there  was  a  regular  inva- 
sion of  the  cottage.  The  drawing-room  carpet  was 


128  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

up,  and  the  room  was  full  of  packing-cases.  Carrie 
Paine  had  taken  possession  of  one,  and  her  sister 
Sophy  and  Lily  Twentyman  had  a  turned-up  box 
between  them.  Miss  Sartoris  and  Gussie  Scobell 
had  wicker  chairs.  Dorothy  had  just  brought  in 
tea,  and  placed  before  Nan  a  heterogeneous  assem- 
blage of  kitchen  cups  and  saucers,  mugs,  and  odds 
and  ends  of  crockery,  when  Lady  Fitzroy  entered  in 
her  habit,  accompanied  by  her  sister,  the  Honor- 
able Maude  Burgoyne,  both  of  whom  seemed  to  en- 
joy the  picnic  excessively. 

44 Do  let  me  have  the  mug,"  implored  Miss  Bur- 
goyne: she  was  a  pretty  little  brunette  with  a  nez 
retrousse.  "I  have  never  drunk  out  of  one  since  my 
nursery  days.  How  cool  it  is,  after  the  sunny 
roads!  I  think  carpets  ought  to  be  abolished  in  the 
summer.  When  I  have  a  house  of  my  own, 
Evelyn,  1  mean  to  have  Indian  matting  and  noth- 
ing else  in  warm  weather/' 

"I  am  very  fond  of  Indian  matting/'  returned 
her  sister,  sipping  her  tea  contentedly.  "Fitzroy 
hoped  to  have  looked  in  this  afternoon,  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner,  to  say  good-bye,  but  there  is  an  assault-at- 
arms  at  the  Albert  Hall,  and  he  is  taking  my  young 
brother  Algernon  to  see  it.  He  is  quite  inconsol- 
able at  the  thought  of  losing  such  pleasant  neigh- 
bors, and  sent  all  sorts  of  pretty  messages,"  finished 
Lady  Fitzroy,  graciously. 

44Here  is  Edgar,"  exclaimed  Carrie  Paine;  "he 
told  us  that  he  meant  to  put  in  an  appearance ;  but 
I  am  afraid  the  poor  boy  will  find  himself  de  trop 
among  so  many  ladies." 

Edgar  was  the  youngest  Paine — a  tall  Eton  boy, 
who  looked  as  though  he  would  soon  be  too  big  for 
jackets,  and  an  especial  friend  of  Nan's. 

44  How  good  of  you  to  come  and  say  good-bye, 
Gar!"  she  said,  summoning  him  to  her  side,  as  th.e 
boy  looked  round  him  blushing  and  half  terrified. 
4  *  What  have  you  got  there  under  your  jacket?" 

"It  is    the    puppy  I    promised  you,"  returned 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  129 

Edgar,  eagerly;  "don't  you  know — Nell's  puppy? 
Father  said  I  might  have  it."  And  he  deposited  a 
fat  black  retriever  puppy  at  Nan's  feet  The  little 
beast  made  a  clumsy  rush  at  her,  and  then  rolled 
over  on  its  back.  Nan  took  it  up  in  high  delight, 
and  showed  it  to  her  mother. 

"Isn't  it  good  of  Gar,  mother?  and  when  we  all 
wanted  a  dog  so!  We  have  never  had  a  pet  since 
poor  old  Juno  died;  and  this  will  be  such  a  splendid 
fellow  when  he  grows  up.  Look  at  his  head  and 
curly  black  paws;  and  what  a  dear  solemn  face  he 
has  got!" 

"lam  glad  you  like  him,"  replied  Edgar,  who 
was  now  perfectly  at  his  ease.  "We  have  chris- 
tened him  'Laddie.'  He  is  the  handsomest  puppy 
of  the  lot,  and  our  man  Jake  says  he  is  perfectly 
healthy."  And  then,  as  Nan  cut  him  some  cake,  he 
proceeded  to  enlighten  her  on  the  treatment  of  this 
valuable  animal. 

The  arrival  of  "Laddie"  made  quite  a  diversion, 
and,  when  the  good  byes  were  all  said,  Nan  took 
the  little  animal  in  her  arms  and  went  with  Phillis 
for  the  last  time  to  gather  flowers  in  the  Longmead 
garden,  and  when  the  twilight  came  on  the  three 
girls  went  slowly  through  the  village,  bidding  fare- 
well to  their  old  haunts. 

It  was  all  very  sad,  and  nobody  slept  that  night 
in  the  cottage.  Nan's  tears  were  shed  very  quietly, 
but  they  fell  thick  and  fast. 

"Oh,  Dick,  it  is  hard — hard!"  thought  the  poor 
girl,  burying  her  face  in  the  pillow;  "but  I  have 
not  let  you  know  the  day,  so  you  will  not  be  think- 
ing of  us.  I  would  not  pain  you  for  worlds,  Dick, 
not  more  than  I  can  help."  And  then  she  dried 
her  eyes  and  told  herself  that  she  must  be  brave 
for  all  their  sakes  to-morrow;  but,  for  all  her  good 
resolutions,  sleep  would  not  come  to  her  any  more 
than  it  did  to  Phillis,  who  lay  open-eyed  and  miser- 
able until  morning. 

9Qirl», 


130  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

"l    MUST    HAVE    GRACE." 

When  the  Reverend  Archibald  Drummond  was 
nominated  to  the  living  of  Hadleigh  in  Sussex,  it 
was  at  once  understood  by  his  family  that  he  had 
achieved  a  decided  success  in  life. 

Hadleigh  until  very  recently  had  been  a  per- 
petual curacy,  and  the  perpetual  curate  in  charge 
had  lived  in  the  large,  shabby  house  with  the  green 
door  on  the  Braidwood  Road,  as  it  was  called. 
There  had  been  some  talk  of  a  new  vicarage,  but  as 
yet  the  first  brick  had  not  been  laid,  the  building 
committee  had  fallen  out  on  the  question  of  the  site, 
and  nothing  had  been  definitely  arranged;  there  was 
a  good  deal  of  talk,  too,  about  the  church  restoration, 
but  at  the  present  moment  nothing  had  been  done. 

Mr.  Drummond  had  not  been  disturbed  in  his 
mind  by  the  delay  of  the  building  committee  in  the 
matter  of  the  new  vicarage,  but  on  the  topic  of  the 
church  restoration  he  had  been  heard  to  say  very 
bitter  things — far  too  bitter,  it  was  thought,  to  pro- 
ceed from  the  lips  of  such  a  new-comer.  It  is  not 
always  wise  to  be  outspoken,  and  when  Mr.  Drum- 
mond expressed  himself  a  little  too  frankly  on  the 
ugliness  of  the  sacred  edifice,  which  until  lately  had 
been  a  chapel-of-ease,  he  caused  a  great  deal  of  dis- 
satisfaction in  the  minds  of  his  hearers;  but  when 
the  young  vicar,  still  strongly  imbued  with  the 
beauties  of  Oxford  architecture,  had  looked  round 
blankly  on  the  great  square  pews  and  galleries,  and 
then  at  the  wooden  pulpit,  and  the  Ten  Command- 
ments that  adorned  the  east  end,  he  was  not  quite 
so  sure  in  his  mind  that  his  position  was  as  enviable 
as  that  of  other  men. 

Church  architecture  was  his  hobby,  and,  if  the 
truth  must  be  told,  he  was  a  little  "High"  in  his 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  131 

views;  without  attaching  himself  to  the  Ultra- Rit- 
ualistic party,  he  was  still  strongly  impregnated 
with  many  of  their  ideas;  he  preferred  Gregorian 
to  Anglican  chants,  and  would  have  had  no  objec- 
tion to  incense  if  his  diocese  could  have  been  brought 
to  appreciate  it  too. 

An  ornate  service  was  decidedly  to  his  taste.  It 
was,  therefore,  a  severe  mortification  when  he  found 
himself  compelled  to  minister  Sunday  after  Sunday 
in  a  building  that  was  ugly  enough  for  a  conven- 
ticle, and  to  listen  to  the  florid  voices  of  a  mixed 
choir,  instead  of  the  orderly  array  of  men  and  boys 
in  white  surplices  to  which  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed. If  he  had  been  combative  by  nature — one 
who  loved  to  gird  his  armor  about  him  and  to 
plunge  into  every  sort  of  melee — he  would  have 
rejoiced  after  a  fashion  at  the  thought  of  the  work 
cut  out  for  him,  of  bringing  order  and  beauty  out 
of  this  chaos;  but  he  was  by  nature  too  impatient. 
He  would  have  condemned  and  destroyed  instead 
of  trying  to  renovate. 

"Why  not  build  a  new  church  at  once?"  he  said, 
with  a  certain  youthful  intolerance  that  made  peo- 
ple angry.  "Never  mind  the  vicarage;  the  old 
house  will  last  my  time;  but  a  place  like  this — a 
rising  place — ought  to  have  a  church  worthy  of  it. 
It  will  be  money  thrown  away  to  restore  this  one,9' 
finished  the  young  vicar,  looking  round  him  with 
sorely  troubled  eyes;  and  it  was  this  outspoken 
frankness  that  had  lost  him  popularity  at  first. 

But,  if  the  new  vicar  had  secret  cause  for  discon- 
tent, in  the  Drummond  family  there  was  nothing 
but  the  sweetness  of  triumph. 

"Archie  has  never  given  me  a  moment's  trouble 
from  his  birth/'  his  proud  mother  was  wont  to 
declare;  and  it  must  be  owned  that  the  young  man 
had  done  very  fairly  for  himself. 

There  had  been  plenty  of  anxiety  in  the  Drum- 
mond household  while  Archibald  was  enjoying  his 
first  Oxford  term.  Things  came  to  a  climax:  his 


182  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

father,  who  was  a  Leeds  manufacturer,  had  failed 
most  utterly,  and  to  a  large  amount.  The  firm  of 
Drummond  &  Drummond,  once  known  as  a  most 
respectable  and  reliable  firm,  had  come  suddenly, 
but  not  unexpectedly,  to  the  ground;  and  Archibald 
Drummond  the  elder  had  been  compelled  to  accept 
a  managership  in  the  very  firm  that,  by  competition 
and  under-selling,  had  helped  to  ruin  him. 

It  was  a  heavy  trial  to  a  man  of  Mr.  Drummond's 
proud  temperament;  but  he  went  through  with  it 
in  a  tough,  dogged  way  that  excited  his  wife's  ad- 
miration. True,  his  bread  was  bitter  to  him  for  a 
long  time,  and  the  sweetness  of  life,  as  he  told 
himself,  was  over  for  him ;  but  he  had  a  large 
family  to  maintain,  sons  and  daughters  growing  up 
around  him,  and  the  youngest  was  yet  six  months 
old;  under  such  circumstances  a  man  may  be  in- 
duced to  put  his  pride  in  his  pocket. 

"Your  father  has  grown  quite  gray,  and  has 
begun  to  stoop.  It  makes  my  heart  quite  ache  to 
see  him  sometimes/'  Mrs.  Drummond  wrote  to  Jier 
eldest  son;  "but  he  never  says  a  word  to  any  of  us. 
He  just  goes  through  with  it  day  after  day." 

At  that  time  Archie  was  her  great  comfort.  He 
had  begun  to  make  his  own  way  early  in  life,  un- 
derstanding from  the  first  that  his  parents  could  do 
very  little  for  him.  He  had  worked  well  at  school, 
and  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  one  or  two  scholar- 
ships. When  his  university  life  commenced,  and 
the  household  at  Leeds  became  straitened  in  their 
circumstances,  he  determined  not  to  encumber  them 
with  his  presence. 

He  soon  became  known  in  his  college  as  a  reading 
man  and  a  steady  worker;  he  was  fortunate,  too. 
in  obtaining  pupils  for  the  long  vacation.  By  and 
by  he  became  a  fellow  and  tutor  of  his  college,  and 
before  he  was  eight-and-twenty  the  living  of  Had- 
leigh  was  offered  to  him.  It  was  not  at  all  a  rich 
living — not  being  worth  more  than  three  hundred 
a  year — and  some  of  his  Oxford  friends  would  have 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  138 

dissuaded  him  from  accepting  it;  but  Archibald 
Drummond  was  not  of  their  opinion.  Oxford  did 
not  suit  his  constitution;  he  was  never  well  there. 
Sussex  air,  and  especially  the  sea-side,  would  give 
him  just  the  tone  he  required.  He  liked  the  big, 
old-fashioned  house  that  would  be  allotted  to  him. 
He  could  take  pupils  and  add  to  his  income  in  that 
way;  at  present  he  had  his  fellowship.  It  was 
only  in  the  event  of  his  marriage  that  his  income 
might  not  be  found  sufficient.  At  the  present 
moment  he  had  no  matrimonial  intentions;  there 
was  only  one  thing  on  which  he  was  determined, 
and  that  was,  that  Grace  must  live  with  him  and 
keep  his  house. 

Grace  was  the  sister  next  to  him  in  age.  Mattie 
— or  Matilda,  as  her  mother  often  called  her — was 
the  eldest  of  the  family,  and  was  two  years  older 
than  Archibald.  Between  him  and  Grace  there 
were  two  brothers,  Fred  and  Clyde,  and  beyond 
Grace  a  string  of  girls,  ending  in  Dottie,  who  was 
not  yet  ten.  Archibald  used  to  forget  their  ages 
and  mix  them  up  in  the  most  helpless  way;  he  was 
never  quite  sure  if  Isabel  were  eighteen  or  twenty, 
or  whether  Clara  or  Susie  came  next.  He  once 
forgot  Laura  altogether,  and  was  only  reminded  of 
her  existence  by  the  shock  of  surprise  at  seeing  the 
awkward-looking,  ungainly  girl  standing  before 
him,  looking  shyly  up  in  his  face. 

Archibald  was  never  quite  alive  to  the  blessing 
of  having  seven  sisters,  none  of  them  with  any 
pretension  to  beauty,  unless  it  were  Grace,  though 
he  was  obliged  to  confess  on  his  last  visit  to  Leeds 
that  Isabel  was  certainly  passable  looking.  He 
tried  to  take  a  proper  amount  of  interest  in  them, 
and  be  serenely  unconscious  of  their  want  of  grace 
and  polish ;  but  the  effort  was  too  manifest,  and 
neither  Clara  nor  Susie  nor  Laura  regarded  their 
grave  elder  brother  with  any  lively  degree  of  affec- 
tion. Mrs.  Drummond  was  a  somewhat  stern  and 


134  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

exacting  mother,  but  she  was  never  so  difficult  to 
please  as  when  her  eldest  son  was  at  home. 

"Home  is  never  so  comfortable  when  Archie  is 
in  it,"  Susie  would  grumble  to  her  favorite  confi- 
dante, Grace.  "Every  one  is  obliged  to  be  on  their 
best  behavior;  and  yet  mother  finds  fault  from 
morning  to  night.  Dottie  is  crying  now  because 
she  has  been  scolded  for  coming  down  to  tea  in  a 
dirty  pinafore." 

"Oh,  hush,  Susie  dear!  you  ought  not  to  say  such 
things,"  returned  Grace,  in  her  quiet  voice. 

Poor  Grace!  these  visits  of  Archie  were  her  only 
pleasures.  The  brother  and  sister  were  devoted  to 
each  other.  In  Archie's  eyes  not  one  of  the  others 
was  to  be  compared  to  her;  and  in  this  he  was  per- 
fectly right. 

Grace  Drummond  was  a  tall,  sweet-looking  girl 
of  two-and- twenty  —  not  pretty,  except  in  her 
brother's  opinion,  but  possessing  a  soft,  fair  comeli- 
ness that  made  her  pleasant  to  look  upon.  In  voice 
and  manner  she  was  extremely  quiet  —  almost 
grave;  and  only  those  who  lived  with  her  had  any 
idea  of  the  repressed  strength  and  energy  of  her 
character,  and  the  almost  masculine  clearness  of  in- 
tellect that  lay  under  the  soft  exterior.  One  side 
of  her  nature  was  hidden  from  every  one  but  her 
brother,  and  to  him  only  revealed  by  intermittent 
flashes,  and  that  was  the  passionate  absorption  of 
her  affection  in  him.  To  her  parents  she  was  duti- 
ful and  submissive,  but  when  she  grew  up  the  yoke 
of  her  mother's  will  was  felt  to  be  oppressive.  Her 
father's  nature  was  more  in  sympathy  with  her- 
own;  but  even  with  him  she  was  reticent.  She  was 
good  to  all  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  especially 
devoted  to  Dottie;  but  her  affection  for  them  was 
so  strongly  pervaded  by  anxiety  and  the  overweight 
of  responsibility  that  its  pains  overbalanced  its 
pleasures.  She  loved  them,  and  toiled  in  their  ser- 
vice from  morning  to  night;  but  as  yet  she  had  not 
felt  herself  rewarded  by  any  decided  success.  But 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  135 

in  Archie  her  pride  was  equal  to  her  love;  she  was 
critical,  and  her  standard  was  somewhat  high,  but 
he  satisfied  her.  What  other  people  recognized  as 
faults,  she  regarded  as  the  merest  blemishes.  With- 
out being  absolutely  faultless,  which  was  of  course 
impossible  in  a  creature  of  flesh  and  blood,  he  was 
still  as  near  perfection,  she  thought,  as  he  could  be. 
Perhaps  her  affection  for  him  blinded  her  somewhat, 
and  cast  a  sort  of  loving  glamour  over  her  eyes;  for 
it  must  be  owned  that  Archibald  was  by  no  means 
extraordinary  in  either  goodness  or  cleverness. 
From  a  boy  she  had  watched  his  career  with  dazzled 
eyes,  rejoicing  in  every  stroke  of  success  that  came 
to  him  as  though  it  were  her  own.  Her  own  life 
was  dull  and  laborious,  spent  in  the  overcrowded 
house  in  Lowder  Street,  but  she  forgot  it  in  follow- 
ing his.  Now  and  then  bright  days  came  to  her — 
few  in  number,  but  absolutely  golden,  when  this 
dearly  loved  brother  came  on  a  brief  visit — when 
they  had  snatches  of  delicious  talk  in  the  empty 
school-room  at  the  top  of  the  house,  or  he  took  her 
out  with  him  for  a  long,  quiet  walk. 

Mrs.  Drummond  always  made  some  dry,  sarcastic 
remark  when  they  came  in,  for  she  was  secretly 
jealous  of  Archie's  affection  for  Grace.  Hers  was 
rather  a  monopolizing  nature,  and  she  would  wil- 
lingly have  had  the  first  share  in  her  son's  affec- 
tions. It  somewhat  displeased  her  to  see  him  so 
wrapped  up  in  the  one  sister  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
the  others,  as  she  told  him. 

44 1  think  you  might  have  asked  Matilda  or  Isabel 
to  accompany  you.  The  poor  girls  never  see  any- 
thing of  you*,  Archie,"  she  would  say  plaintively  to 
her  son.  But  to  Grace  she  would  speak  somewhat 
sharply,  bidding  her  fulfill  some  neglected  duty, 
which  another  could  as  well  have  performed,  and 
making  her  at  once  understand  by  her  manner  that 
she  was  to  blame  in  leaving  Mattie  at  home. 

"Mother,"  Archibald  said  to  her  one  day,  when 
she  had  spoken  with  unusual  severity,  and  the  poor 


188  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

girl  had  retreated  from  the  room,  feeling  as  though 
she  had  been  convicted  of  selfishness,  "we  must 
settle  the  matter  about  which  I  spoke  to  you  last 
night.  I  have  been  thinking  about  it  ever  since. 
Mat  tie  will  not  do  at  all.  I  must  have  Grace!" 

Mrs.  Drummond  looked  up  from  her  mending, 
and  her  thin  lips  settled  into  a  hard  line  that  they 
always  took  when  her  mind  was  made  up  on  a  dis- 
agreeable subject.  She  had  a  pinafore  belonging 
to  Dottie  in  her  hand;  there  was  a  jagged  rent  in 
it,  and  she  sighed  impatiently  as  she  put  it  down; 
though  she  was  not  a  woman  who  shirked  any  oE 
her  maternal  duties,  she  had  often  been  heard  to 
say  that  her  work  was  never  done,  and  that  her 
mending-basket  was  never  empty. 

"But  if  I  can  not  spare  Grace,"  she  said,  rather 
shortly,  as  she  meditated  another  lecture  to  the 
delinquent  Dottie. 

"But,  mother,  you  must  spare  her!"  returned  her 
son,  eagerly,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  mantel-piece, 
and  watching  her  rapid  manipulations  with  ap- 
parent interest.  "Look  here;  I  am  quite  in  earnest. 
I  have  set  my  heart  on  having  Grace.  She  is  just 
the  one  to  manage  a  clergyman's  household.  She 
would  be  my  right  hand  in  the  parish." 

"She  is  our  right  hand  too,  Archie;  but  I  sup- 
pose we  are  to  cut  it  off,  that  it  may  benefit  you  and 
your  parish." 

Mrs.  Drummond  seldom  spoke  so  sharply  to  her 
eldest  son;  but  this  request  of  his  was  grievous  to 
her. 

"I  think  Grace  ought  to  be  considered,  too,  in 
the  matter,"  he  returned,  somewhat  sullenly.  "She 
works  harder  than  any  paid  governess,  and  gets 
small  thanks  for  her  trouble. M 

"She  does  her  duty,"  returned  Mrs.  Drummond, 
coldly — she  very  seldom  praised  any  of  her  children 
— "but  not  more  than  Mattie  does  hers.  You  are 
prejudiced  strongly  against  your  sister,  Archie; 
you  are  not  fair  to  her  in  any  way.  Mattie  is  a 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  13* 

capital  little  housekeeper.  She  is  economical,  and 
full  of  clever  contrivances.  It  is  not  as  though  I 
asked  you  to  try  Isabel.  She  is  well  enough,  too, 
in  her  way,  but  a  little  flighty,  and  rather  too 
pretty,  perhaps — "  but  here  a  laugh  from  Archie 
grated  on  her  ear. 

"Too  pretty!  what  an  absurd  idea!  The  girl  is 
passable  looking,  and  I  will  not  deny  that  she  has 
improved  lately;  but,  mother,  there  is  not  one  of 
the  girls  that  can  be  called  pretty  except  Grace." 

Mrs.  Drummond  winced  at  her  son's  outspoken 
words.  The  plainness  of  her  daughters  was  a  sore 
subject. 

She  had  never  understood  why  her  girls  were  so 
ordinary  looking.  She  had  been  a  handsome  girl 
in  her  time,  and  was  still  a  fine- looking  woman. 
Her  husband,  too,  had  had  a  fair  amount  of  good 
looks,  and,  though  he  stooped,  was  still  admirable 
in  her  eyes.  The  boys,  too,  were  thoroughly  fine 
fellows.  Fred  was  decidedly  handsome,  and  so 
was  Clyde;  and  as  for  her  favorite  Archie,  Mrs 
Drummond  glanced  up  at  him  as  he  stood  beside 
her. 

He  certainly  looked  a  model  young  clergyman. 
His  features  were  good,  but  the  lower  part  of  his  face 
was  quite  hidden  by  the  fair  mustache  and  the  soft 
silky  beard.  He  had  thoughtful  gray  eyes,  which 
could  look  as  severe  as  hers  sometimes;  and,  though 
his  shoulders  were  somewhat  too  sloping,  there 
could  be  no  fault  found  with  his  figure.  He  was  as 
nice  looking  as  possible,  she  thought,  and  no  mother 
could  have  been  better  satisfied.  But  why,  with 
the  exception  of  Grace  and  Isabel,  were  her  girls 
so  deficient  in  outward  graces?  It  could  not  be 
denied  that  they  were,  very  ordinary  girls.  Laura 
was  overgrown  and  freckled,  and  nad  Aed  hair; 
Susie  was  sickly  looking,  and  so  short-sighted  that 
they  feared  she  would  have  to  take  to  spectacles; 
and  Clara  was  stolid  and  heavy  looking,  one  of 
those  thick-set  girls  that  dress  never  soems  to  ni- 


188  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 

prove,  Dottie  had  a  funny  little  face;  but  one  could 
not  judge  of  her  yet.  And  Mattie — Mrs.  Drum- 
mond  sighed  again  as  she  thought  of  her  eldest 
daughter — Mattie  was  thirty;  and  her  mother  felt 
she  would  never  marry.  It  was  not  that  she  was 
so  absolutely  plain  —  people  who  liked  her  said 
Mattie  rari  a  nice  face;  but  she  was  so  abrupt,  so 
uncouth  :'n  her  awkwardness,  such  a  stranger  to 
the  minor  morals  of  life,  that  it  would  be  a  wonder 
indeed  if  she  could  find  favor  in  any  man's  eyes. 

"I  do*  think  you  are  too  hard  on  your  sisters," 
returned  Mrs.  Drummond,  stung  by  her  son's 
remark.  "  Isabel  was  very  much  admired  at  her 
first  party  last  week.  Mrs.  Cochrane  told  me  so, 
and  so  did  Miss  Blair."  She  could  have  added  that 
her  maternal  interest  had  been  strongly  stirred  by 
the  mention  of  a  certain  Mr.  Ellis  Burton,  who  she 
had  understood  had  paid  a  great  deal  of  attention 
that  evening  to  Isabel,  and  who  was  the  eldest  son 
of  a  wealthy  manufacturer  in  Leeds.  But  Mrs. 
Drummond  had  some  good  old  fashioned  notions, 
and  one  of  these  was  never  to  speak  on  such  deli- 
cate subjects  as  the  matrimonial  prospects  of  her 
daughters;  indeed,  she  often  thanked  Heaven  she 
was  not  a  match-making  mother — which  was  as 
well,  under  the  circumstances. 

"Well,  well,  we  are  not  talking  about  Isabel," 
returned  her  son,  impatiently.  "The  question  is 
about  Grace,  mother.  I  really  do  wish  very  much 
that  you  and  my  father  would  stretch  a  point  for 
me  here.  I  want  her  more  than  I  can  say." 

"But,  Archie,  you  must  be  reasonable.  Just  think 
a  moment.  Your  father  can  not  afford  to  send  the 
girls  to  school,  or  to  pay  for  a  good  finishing  gov- 
erness. We  have  given  Grace  every  advantage; 
and  just  as  she  is  m  iking  herself  really  useful  to  me 
in  the  school  roonr,  you  want  to  deprive  me  of  her 
services  " 

"You  know  I  offered  to  pay  for  Clara's  school- 
ing," returned  her  son,  reproachfully.  "She  is  more 


NOT  LIKE  'OTHER  GIRLS.  138 

than  sixteen,  is  she  not?  Surely  Mattie  could 
teach  the  others?" 

But  Mrs.  Drummond's  clear,  concise  voice  inter- 
rupted him. 

"Archie,  how  can  you  talk  such  nonsense?  You 
know  poor  Mattie  was  never  good  at  book-learning. 
She  would  hardly  do  for  Dottie.  Ask  Grace,  if 
you  doubt  my  word." 

"Of  course  I  do  not  doubt  it,  mother/'  in  rather 
an  aggravated  voice,  for  he  felt  he  was  having  the 
worst  of  the  argument. 

"Then  why  do  you  not  believe  me  when  I  tell 
you  the  thing  you  ask  is  impossible?"  replied  his 
mother,  more  calmly.  "I  am  sorry  for  you  if  you 
are  disappointed,  Archie;  but  you  undervalue 
Mattie — you  do  indeed.  She  will  make  you  a  nice 
little  housekeeper,  and  though  she  is  not  clever,  she 
is  so  amiable  that  nothing  ever  puts  her  out;  and 
visiting  the  poor  and  sick-nursing  are  more  in  her 
line  than  in  Grace's.  Mrs.  Blair  finds  her  invalu- 
able. She  wanted  her  for  one  of  her  district  visi- 
tors, and  I  said  she  had  too  much  to  do  at  home." 

Archie  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Mrs.  Blair  was 
the  wife  of  the  vicar  of  All  Saints',  where  the 
Drummonds  attended,  and  from  a  boy  she  had 
been  his  pet  aversion.  She  was  a  bustling,  manag- 
ing woman,  and  of  course  Mattie  was  just  to  her 
taste.  He  did  not  see  much  use  in  continuing  the 
conversation;  with  all  his  affection  for  his  mother 
— and  she  was  better  loved  by  her  sons  than  by  her 
daughters — he  knew  her  to  be  as  immovable  as  a 
rock  when  she  had  once  made  up  her  mind.  He 
thought  at  first  of  appealing  to  his  father  on  Grace's 
behalf,  but  abandoned  this  notion  after  a  few  min- 
utes' reflection.  His  father  was  decided  and  firm 
in  all  matters  relating  to  business,  but  for  many 
years  past  he  had  abandoned  the  domestic  reins  to 
his  wife  s  capable  hands.  Perhaps  he  had  proved 
her  worth  and  prudence;  perhaps  he  thought  the 
management  of  seven  daughters  too  much  for  any 


140  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIKLS. 

man.  Anyhow,  he  interfered  less  and  less  as  the 
years  went  on;  and  if  at  any  time  he  differed  from 
his  wife,  she  could  always  talk  him  over,  as  her  son 
well  knew. 

When  the  subject  had  been  first  mooted  in  the 
household,  he  had  said  a  word  or  two  to  his  father, 
and  had  found  him  very  reluctant  to  entertain  the 
idea  of  parting  with  Grace.  She  was  his  favorite 
daughter,  and  he  thought  how  he  should  miss  her 
when  he  came  home  weary  and  jaded  at  night. 

"I  don't  think  it  will  do  at  all,"  he  had  said,  in 
an  undecided,  dissatisfied  tone.  "Won't  one  of  the 
other  girls  serve  your  turn?  There's  Mattie,  or 
that  little  monkey  Isabel,  she  is  as  pert  and  lively 
as  possible.  But  Grace;  why,  she  is  every  one's 
right  hand.  What  would  the  mother  or  the  young 
ones  do  without  her?" 

No;  it  was  no  use  appealing  to  his  father,  Archie 
thought,  and  might  only  make  mischief  in  the 
house.  He  and  Grace  must  make  up  their  mind  to 
a  few  more  years1  separation.  He  turned  away 
after  his  mother's  last  speech,  and  finally  left  the 
room  without  saying  another  word.  There  was  a 
cloud  on  his  face,  and  Mrs.  Drummond  saw  that  he 
was  much  displeased;  but,  though  she  sighed  again 
as  she  took  up  a  pair  of  Clyde's  socks  and  inspected 
them  carefully,  there  was  no  change  in  her  resolu- 
tion that  Mattie,  and  not  Grace,  should  go  to  the 
vicarage  for  the  year's  visit;  that  was  all  Archie 
had  asked. 

There  are  mothers  and  mothers  in  this  world — 
some  who  are  capable  of  sacrificing  their  children  to 
Moloch,  who  will  barter  their  own  flesh  and  blood 
in  return  for  some  barren  heritage  or  other.  Tnere 
are  those  who  will  exact  from  those  dependent  on 
them  heavy  tithes  of  daily  patience  and  uncom- 
plaining drudgery;  while  others,  who  are  "mothers 
indeed,"  give  all,  asking  for  nothing  in  return. 

Mrs.  Drummond  was  a  good  woman.  She  had 
many  virtues  and  few  faults.  She  was  lady-like,  in- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  141 

iustrious  and  self-denying  in  her  own  personal  com- 
forts,  an  exemplary  wife,  and  a  tolerant  mistress; 
but  she  was  better  understood  by  her  sons  than  by 
her  daughters. 

Her  maternal  instincts  were  very  strong,  and  no 
mother  had  more  delighted  in  her  nursery  than  she 
had  in  hers.  As  long  as  there  was  a  baby  in  the 
house  the  tenderness  of  her  love  was  apparent 
enough.  She  wore  herself  out  tending  her  infants, 
and  no  one  ever  heard  her  say  a  harsh  word  in  her 
nursery. 

But  as  her  children  grew  up,  there  was  much  clash- 
ing of  wills  in  the  household.  Her  sons  did  not  fear 
her  in  the  least ;  but  with  her  daughters  it  was  other- 
wise. They  felt  the  mother's  strong  will  repressive; 
it  threatened  to  dwarf  their  individuality  and  cramp 
that  free  growth  that  is  so  necessary  to  young 
things. 

Dottie,  who,  by  virtue  of  being  the  last  baby,  had 
had  more  than  her  fair  amount  of  petting,  was  only 
just  beginning  to  learn  her  lesson  of  unquestioning 
obedience;  and,  as  she  was  somewhat  spoiled,  the 
lesson  was  a  hard  one.  But  Laura  and  Susie  and 
Clara  had  not  yet  found  out  that  their  mother  loved 
them  and  wished  to  be  their  friend;  they  were  timid 
and  reserved  with  her,  and  took  all  their  troubles 
to  Grace.  Even  Mattie,  who  was  her  first  born, 
and  who  was  old  enough  to  be  her  mother's  com- 
panion, quailed  and  blushed  like  a  child  under  the 
dry  caustic  speeches  at  which  Clyde  and  Fred  only 
laughed. 

41  You  don't  understand  the  mother.  Her  bark  is 
worse  than  her  bite,"  Clyde  would  say  to  his  sister, 
sometimes.  **She  is  an  awfully  clever  woman,  and 
it  riles  her  to  see  herself  surrounded  by  such  a  set 
of  ninnies.  Now,  don't  sulk,  Belle.  You  know 
Mattie's  a  duffer  compared  to  Grace;  aren't  you 
Matt?" 

At  which   truism   poor  Mattie  would  hang 
bead 


142  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 

"Yes,  Clyde;  I  know  I  am  dreadfully  stupid 
sometimes,  and  that  makes  mother  angry." 

Mrs.  Drummond  often  complained  bitterly  of  her 
daughters'  want  of  confidence  in  her,  but  she  never 
blamed  herself  for  the  barrier  that  seemed  between 
them.  She  was  forever  asserting  maternal  author- 
ity, when  such  questions  might  have  been  safely 
laid  to  rest  between  her  and  her  grown-up  daugh- 
ters. Mrs.  Challoner's  oneness  of  sympathy  with 
her  girls,  her  lax  discipline,  her  perfect  equality, 
would  have  shocked  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Drummond's 
caliber.  She  would  not  have  tolerated  or  understood 
it  for  a  moment. 

44 My  girls  must  do  as  I  wish,"  was  a  very  ordin- 
ary speech  in  her  mouth.  14I  always  do  as  my  girls 
wish,"  Mrs.  Challoner  would  have  said.  And  in- 
deed the  two  mothers  were  utterly  dissimilar;  but 
it  may  be  doubted  whether  the  Challoner  household 
was  not  far  happier  than  the  family  in  Lowder 
Street. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

U YOU  CAN   DARE  TO    TELL    ME    THESE    THINGS!" 

Archibald  Drummond  had  left  his  mother's  pres- 
ence with  a  cloud  on  his  brow.  He  had  plenty  of 
filial  affection  for  her,  but  it  was  not  the  first  time 
that  he  had  found  her  too  much  for  him.  She  had 
often  angered  him  before  by  her  treatment  of 
Grace,  but  he  had  told  himself  that  she  was  his. 
mother,  that  a  man  could  have  but  one,  and  so  he 
had  brought  himself  to  forgive  her.  But  this  time 
she  had  set  herself  against  the  cherished  plan  of 
years.  He  had  always  looked  forward  to  the  time 
when  he  could  have  Grace  to  live  with  him ;  they 
had  made  all  sorts  of  schemes  together,  and  all 
their  talk  had  concentrated  itself  toward  this  point; 
the  disappointment  would  place  a  sort  of  blaukness 
before  them;  they  would  be  working  separately, 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  143 

far  away  from  each  other,  and  the  distance  would 
not  be  bridged  for  years. 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  in  the  dark,  narrow  hall, 
thinking  intently  over  all  this,  and  then  he  went 
slowly  up  stairs.  He  knew  where  he  should  find 
Grace.  His  mother  had  paid  an  unwonted  visit  to 
the  school-room  during  their  walk,  and  on  their 
return  had  expressed  herself  with  some  degree  of 
sharpness  on  the  disorder  she  had  found  there. 
Grace  would  be  busily  engaged  in  putting  every- 
thing to  rights.  It  was  Clara's  business,  but  she 
had  gone  out,  and  had,  as  usual,  forgotten  all  about 
it.  Grace  had  taken  the  blame  upon  herself,  of 
course;  she  was  always  shielding  her  younger 
sisters. 

Everything  was  done  when  he  entered  the  room, 
and  Grace  was  sitting  by  the  window,  with  her 
hands  folded  in  her  lap,  indulging  in  a  few  minutes' 
rare  idleness.  She  looked  up  eagerly  as  her 
brother  made  his  appearance. 

The  school-room  was  a  large,  bare  looking  room 
at  the  top  of  the  house,  with  two  narrow  windows 
looking  out  over  a  lively  prospect  of  roofs  and  chim- 
ney-pots. Mrs.  Drummond  had  done  her  utmost  to 
give  it  an  air  of  comfort,  but  is  was,  on  the  whole, 
a  dull, uncomfortable  apartment,  in  spite  of  the  faded 
Turkey  carpet,  and  the  curtains  that  had  once  been 
so  handsome,  but  had  now  merged  into  unwhole- 
some neutral  tints. 

Laura,  who  was  the  wit  of  the  family,  had  nick- 
named it  the  Hospital,  for  it  seemed  to  be  a  recept- 
acle for  all  the  maimed  and  rickety  chairs  of  the 
household,  footstools  in  dilapidated  condition,  and 
odd  pieces  of  lumber  that  had  no  other  place.  Archi- 
bald regarded  it  with  troubled  gaze ;  somehow,  its 
dinginess  had  never  before  so  impressed  him;  and 
then  as  he  looked  at  his  sister  the  frown  deepened 
on  his  face. 

"Well,  Archie?" 

"Oh,  Grape,  it  it  no  u$e!    I  have  talked  myself 


144  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

hoarse;  but  the  mother  is  dead  against  it;  one 
might  as  well  try  to  move  a  rock.  We  shall  have 
to  make  up  our  minds  to  bear  our  disappointment 
as  well  as  we  can." 

' " I  knew  is  was  hopeless  from  the  first,"  returned 
Grace,  slowly;  but,  as  she  spoke,  a  sort  of  dimness 
and  paleness  crept  over  her  face,  belying  her 
words. 

She  was  young,  and  in  youth  hope  never  dies. 
Beyond  the  gray  daily  horizon  there  is  always  a 
possible  gleam,  a  new  to-morrow;  youth  abounds 
in  infinite  surprises,  in  probabilities  which  are  as 
large  as  they  are  vague.  Grace  told  herself  that 
she  never  hoped  much  from  Archie's  mission;  yet 
when  he  came  to  her  with  his  ill  success  plainly 
stamped  upon  his  countenance,  the  dying  out  of  her 
dream  was  bitter  to  her. 

"I  knew  it  was  hopeless  from  the  first/'  had  been 
her  answer,  and  then  breath  for  further  words 
failed  her,  and  she  sat  motionless,  with  her  hands 
clasped  tightly  together,  while  Archie  placed  him- 
self on  the  window-seat  beside  her,  and  looked  out 
ruefully,  at  the  opposite  chimneys. 

"Well,  it  was  all  over,  this  dearly  cherished 
scheme  of  theirs ;  she  must  go  on  now  with  the  dull 
routine  of  daily  duties,  she  must  stoop  her  neck 
afresh  to  the  yoke  she  had  long  found  so  galling; 
this  school-room  must  be  her  world,  she  must  not 
hope  any  longer  for  wider  vistas,  for  more  expans- 
ive horizons,  for  tasks  that  should  be  more  con- 
genial to  her,  for  all  that  was  now  made  im- 
possible. 

Mattie,  not  she,  must  go  and  keep  Archie's  house, 
and  here  for  a  moment  she  closed  her  eyes,  the  pain 
was  so  bitter;  she  thought  of  the  old  vicarage,  of 
the  garden  where  she  and  Archie  were  to  have 
worked,  of  the  shabby  old  study  where  he  meant  to 
write  his  sermons,  while  she  was  to  sit  beside  him 
with  her  book  or  needle-work,  of  the  evenings 
when  he  bad  promised  to  read  to  her,  ot  the  walks 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS-  145 

they  were  to  have  together,  of  all  the  dear  delight- 
ful plans  they  had  made. 

And  now  her  mother  had  said  them  nay;  it  was 
Mattie  who  was  to  be  his  housekeeper,  who  would 
sit  opposite  to  him  and  pour  out  his  coffee,  who 
would  mend  his  socks  and  do  all  the  thousand  and 
one  things  that  a  woman  delights  in  doing  for  the 
mankind  dependent  on  her  for  comfort. 

Mattie  would  visit  his  poor  people,  and  teach  in 
the  schools,  entertain  his  friends,  and  listen  to  his 
voice  every  Sunday  her  tears  slowly  gathered  un- 
der the  closed  eyelids.  Yes,  Mattie  would  do  all 
that,  but  she  would  not  be  his  chosen  friend  and 
companion;  there  would  be  no  long  charming  talks 
for  her  in  the  stud}''  or  the  sunny  garden;  he  would 
be  as  lonely,  poor  fellow,  in  his  way  as  she  would 
be  in  hers,  and  for  this  her  mother  was  to 
blame. 

"Well,  Gracie,  haven't  you  a  word  to  say?"  asked 
her  brother,  at  last,  surprised  at  her  long  silence. 

"No,  Archie;  it  does  not  bear  talking  about,"  she 
returned  so  passionately  that  he  turned  around  to 
look  at  her.  "I  must  not  even  think  of  it.  I  must 
try  and  shut  it  out  of  my  mind,  or  1  shall  be  on 
good  to  any  one.  But  it  is  hard— hard!"  with  a 
quiver  of  her  lip. 

"I  call  it  a  shame  for  my  father  and  mother  to 
sacrifice  you  in  this  way!"  he  burst  out,  moved  to 
bitter  indignation  at  the  sight  of  her  trouble.  "I 
shall  tell  my  father  what  I  think  about  it  pretty 
plainly." 

But  this  speech  recalled  Grace  to  her  senses: 

44 Oh,  no,  dear!  you  must  do  no  such  thing;  prom- 
ise me  you  will  not.  It  will  be  no  good  at  all ;  and 
it  would  only  make  mother  so  angry.  You  know 
he  always  thinks  as  she  does  about  such  things,  so 
it  would  be  of  no  use.  I  suppose" — with  an 
impatient  sigh — "that  I  ought  to  feel  myself  compli- 
mented  at  knowing  I  can  not  be  spared,  Some  girls 
would  be  proud  to  feel  themselves  their  mother's 

10  Otto*  Girls 


146  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

right  hand;  but  to  me  it  does  not  seem  much  of  a 
privilege." 

44 Don't  talk  in  that  way,  Grace:  it  makes  me  mis- 
erable to  hear  you.  I  am  more  sorry  for  you  than 
I  am  for  myself,  and  yet  I  am  sorry  for  myself  too. 
If  it  were  not  that  my  mother  would  be  too  deeply 
offended,  I  would  refuse  to  have  Mattie  at  all.  We 
never  have  got  on  well  together.  She  is  a  good 
little  thing  in  her  way,  but  her  awkwardness  and 
left-handed  ways  will  worry  me  incessantly.  And 
then  we  have  not  an  idea  in  common — "  but  here 
Grace  generously  interposed. 

44  Poor  old  fellow!  as  though  I  did  not  know  all 
that;  but  you  must  not  vent  it  on  poor  Mattie. 
She  is  not  to  blame  for  our  disappointment.  She 
would  gladly  give  it  up  to  me  if  she  could.  I  know 
she  will  do  her  utmost  to  please  you,  Archie,  and 
she  is  so  good  and  amiable  that  you  must  overlook 
her  little  failings  and  make  the  best  of  her." 

44It  will  be  rather  difficult  work,  I  am  afraid,"  re- 
turned her  brother,  grimly.  441  shall  always  be 
drawing  inviduous  comparisons  between  you  both, 
and  thinking  what  you  would  do  in  her  place." 

44  All  the  same  you  must  try  and  be  good  to  her 
for  my  sake,  for  I  am  very  fond  of  Mattie,"  she 
returned,  gently;  but  she  could  not  help  feeling 
gratified  at  the  assurance  that  he  would  miss  her. 

And  then  she  put  her  hand  on  his  coat  sleeve,  and 
stroked  it,  a  favorite  caress  with  her.  44It  does  not 
bear  talking  about,  does  it,  Archie?  It  only  makes 
it  feel  worse.  I  think  it  must  be  meant  as  a  dis- 
cipline for  me,  because  I  am  so  wicked,  and  that  it 
would  not  do  at  all  for  me  to  be  too  happy."  And 
here  she  pressed  his  arm,  and  looked  up  in  his  face, 
with  an  attempt  at  a  smile. 

44No,  youare  right;  talking  only  makes  it  worse," 
he  returned,  hurriedly;  and  then  he  stooped — for 
he  was  a  tall  man — and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead 
just  between  her  eyes,  and  then  walked  to  the  door, 
whistling  a  light  air, 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  147 

Grace  did  not  think  him  at  all  abrupt  in  thus 
breaking  off  the  conversation.  She  had  caught  his 
meaning  in  a  moment,  and  knew  the  whole  busi- 
ness was  so  painful  to  him  that  he  did  not  care  to 
dwell  on  it.  When  the  tea-bell  rang,  she  prepared 
herself  at  once  to  accompany  him  down-stairs. 

It  was  Archibald's  last  evening  at  home,  and  all 
the  family  were  gathered  round  the  tea-table. 
Since  Mr.  Drummond's  misfortunes  late  dinners 
had  been  relinquished,  and  more  homely  habits 
prevailed  in  the  household.  Mrs.  Drummond  had, 
indeed,  apologized  to  her  son  more  than  once  for 
the  simplicity  of  their  mode  of  life. 

"You  are  accustomed  to  a  late  dinner,  Archie. 
I  wish  1  could  have  managed  it  for  you,  but  your 
father  objects  to  any  alteration  being  made  in  our 
usual  habits." 

44 He  is  quite  right;  and  I  should  have  been  much 
distressed  if  you  had  thought  such  alteration  neces- 
sary," returned  her  son,  very  much  surprised  at 
this  reference  to  his  father.  For  Mrs  Drummond 
rarely  consulted  her  husband  on  such  matters.  In 
this  case,  however,  she  had  done  so,  and  Mr. 
Drummond  had  been  unusually  testy — indeed, 
affronted — at  such  a  question  being  put  to  him. 

44 1  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Isabella,"  he  had 
replied;  4'but  I  suppose  what  is  good  enough  for  me 
is  good  enough  for  Archie."  And  then  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond knew  she  had  made  a  mistake,  for  her  hus- 
band had  felt  bitterly  the  loss  of  his  late  dinner. 
So  Archie  tried  to  fall  in  with  the  habits  of  his 
family,  and  to  enjoy  the  large  plum  or  seed  cake 
that  invariably  garnished  the  tea-table;  and, 
though  he  ate  but  sparingly  ot  the  supper,  which 
always  gave  indigestion,  Grace  was  his  only  confi- 
dante in  the  matter.  Mr.  Drummond,  indeed, 
looked  at  his  son  rather  sharply  once  or  twice,  as 
thoxigh  he  suspected  him  of  fastidiousness.  *4I 
cannot  compliment  you  on  your  appetite,"  he 
would  say,  as  he  helped  himself  to  cold  meat;  "bv.t 


148  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

perhaps  our  home  fare  is  not  so  tempting  as  Oxford 
living?" 

"I  always  say  your  meat  is  unusually  good/'  re- 
turned Archibald,  amicably.  "If  there  be  any  fault, 
it  is  in  my  appetite;  but  that  Hadleigh  air  will 
soon  set  right."  But,  though  he  answered  his 
father  after  this  tolerant  fashion,  he  always  added  in 
a  mental  aside,  that  nine-o'clock  suppers  were 
certainly  barbarous  institutions,  and  peculiarly 
deleterious  to  the  constitution  of  an  Oxford  fellow. 

Mrs.  Drummond  looked  at  them  both  somewhat 
keenly  as  they  entered.  In  spite  of  her  resolution, 
she  was  secrelty  uncomfortable  at  the  thought  that 
Archie  was  displeased  with  her;  her  daughter's 
vexation  was  a  burden  that  could  be  more  easily 
borne;  but  her  maternal  heart  yearned  for  some 
token  that  her  boy  was  not  estranged  from  her. 
But  no  such  consolation  was  to  be  vouchsafed  to 
her.  She  kept  his  usual  place  vacant  beside  her; 
Archie  showed  no  intention  of  taking  it.  He 
placed  himself  by  his  father,  and  began  talking  to 
him  of  a  change  of  ministry  that  was  impending, 
and  which  would  overthrow  the  Conservative  party. 
Mrs.  Drummond,  who  was  one  of  those  women  who 
can  never  be  made  to  take  any  interest  in  politics, 
was  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  talking  to  Mattie  in 
an  undertone,  for  the  other  boys  never  put  in  an 
appearance  at  this  meal;  but  as  she  talked  she  took 
stock  of  Grace's  pale,  abstracted  looks,  as  she  sat 
with  her  plate  before  her,  not  pretending  to  eat, 
and  taking  no  notice  of  Susie  and  Laura,  who 
chatted  busily  across  her. 

It  was  not  a  festive  meal ;  on  the  contrary,  there 
was  an  unusual  air  of  restraint  over  the  whole  party. 
The  younger  members  felt  instinctively  that  there 
was  something  amiss.  Archie  looked  decidedly 
glum;  and  there  was  an  expression  on  the  mother's 
face  that  they  were  not  slow  to  interpret.  No  one 
could  hear  what  it  was  she  was  saying  to  Mattie  that 
made  her  look  so  red  and  nervous  ill  at  once;  but 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  149 

presently  she  addressed  herself  abruptly  to  her  hus- 
band: 

44  It  is  all  settled,  father.  1  have  arranged  with 
Archie  that  Matilda  should  go  down  to  Hadleigh 
next  month." 

Archie  stroked  his  beard,  but  did  not  look  up  or 
make  any  remark,  though  poor  Mattie  looked  at  him 
beseechingly  across  the  table,  as  though  imploring 
a  word.  .  His  mother  would  carry  her  point;  but  he 
would  not  pretend  for  a  moment  that  he  was  other- 
wise than  displeased,  or  that  Mattie  would  be  wel- 
come. 

His  silence  attracted  Mr.  Drummond's  attention: 

44 Oh,  what,  you  have  settled  it,  you  say?  I  hope 
you  are  satisfied,  Archie,  and  properly  grateful  to 
your  mother  for  sparing  Mattie.  She  is  to  go  for  a 
year.  Well,  it  will  be  a  grand  change  for  her.  I 
should  not  be  surprised  if  you  were  to  pick  up  a 
husband,  Miss  Mattie;"  for  Mr.  Drummond  was  a 
man  who,  in  spite  of  his  cares,  was  not  without  his 
joke;  but,  as  usual,  it  was  instantly  frowned  down 
by  his  wife. 

44 1  wonder  at  you,  father,  talking  such  nonsense 
before  the  children.  Why  are  you  giggling,  Laura? 
It  is  very  unseemly  and  ill-behaved.  I  hope  no 
daughter  of  mine  has  such  unmaidenly  notions. 
Mattie  is  going  to  Hadleigh  to  be  a  comfort  to  her 
brother,  and  to  keep  his  house  as  a  clergyman's 
house  ought  to  be  kept." 

44  And  you  are  satisfied,  Archie?"  asked  Mr.  Drum- 
mond, not  quite  pleased  at  his  wife's  reprimand, 
and  struck  anew  by  his  son's  silence. 

44 1  consider  these  questions  somewhat  unneces- 
sary. You  know  my  wishes,  sir,  on  the  subject,  and 
my  mother  also,"  was  the  somewhat  uncompromis- 
ing remark;  44but  it  appears  that  they  are  not  to  be 
•met  in  this  instance.  I  hope  Mattie  will  be  com- 
fortable and  not  miss  her  sisters;"  but  he  did  not 
look  at  the  poor  girl,  and  the  tears  came  into  her 
eyes 


150  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"Oh,  Archie,  I  am  so  sorry!  I  never  meant — she 
stammered:  but  her  mother  interrupted  her: 

44 There  is  no  occasion  for  you  to  be  sorry  about 
anything;  you  had  far  better  be  silent,  Mattie.  But 
you  have  no  tact.  Father,  if  you  have  finished  your 
tea,  I  suppose  you  and  Archie  are  going  out. "  And 
then  Archie  rose  from  the  table,  and  followed  his 
father  out  of  the  room. 

It  was  Isabel's  business  to  put  Dottie  to  bed. 
The  other  girls  had  to  prepare  their  lessons  for  the 
next  day,  and  went  up  to  the  school-room.  Mattie 
made  some  excuse,  and  went  with  them,  and  Mrs. 
Drummond  and  Grace  were  left  alone. 

Grace  had  some  delicate  work  to  finish,  and  she 
placed  herself  by  the  lamp.  Her  mother  had 
returned  to  her  mending-basket;  but  as  the  door 
closed  upon  Mattie,  she  cleared  her  throat,  and 
looked  at  her  daughter. 

44 Grace,  I  must  say  I  am  surprised  at  you!" 

44  Why,  mother?"  But  Grace  did  not  look  up  from 
the  task  she  was  running  with  such  fine  even 
stitches. 

44 1  am  more  than  surprised!"  continued  Mrs. 
Drummond,  severely.  **I  am  disappointed  to  see  in 
what  a  bad  spirit  you  have  received  my  decision.  I 
did  not  think  a  daughter  of  mine  would  have  been 
so  blind  to  her  sense  of  duty!" 

44 1  have  said  nothing  to  make  you  think  that." 

44No,  you  have  said  nothing,  but  looks  can  be  elo- 
quent sometimes.  I  am  not  speaking  of  Archie, 
though  I  can  see  he  is  put  out  too,  for  he  is  a  man, 
and  men  are  not  always  reasonable;  but  that  you 
should  place  yourself  in  such  silent  opposition  to 
my  wishes,  it  is  that  that  shocks  me." 

There  was  an  ominous  sparkle  in  Grace's  gray 
eyes,  and  then  she  deliberately  put  down  her  work 
on  the  table  She  had  hoped  that  her  mother  would 
have  been  contented  with  her  victory,  and  not  have 
spoken  to  her  on  the  subject.  But  if  she  were  so 
attacked  she  would  at  least  defend  herself. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  151 

"You  have  no  right  to  speak  to  me  in  this  way, 
mother!'' 

"No  right,  Grace?"  Mrs.  Drummond  could 
hardly  believe  her  ears.  Never  once  had  a  daugh- 
ter of  hers  questioned  her  right  to  anything. 

"No;  for  I  have  said  nothing  to  bring  all  this 
upon  me.  I  have  been  perfectly  quiet,  and  have 
tried  to  bear  the  bitterness  of  my  disappointment  as 
well  as  I  could.  No  one  is  answerable  for  their 
looks,  and  I,  at  least,  will  not  plead  guilty  on  that 
score." 

"Grace,  you  are  answering  me  very  improperly." 

"I  can  not  say  that  I  think  so,  mother.  I  would 
have  been  silent,  if  you  had  permitted  such  silence; 
but  when  you  drive  me  to  speech,  I  must  say  what 
I  feel  to  be  the  truth — that  I  have  not  been  well 
treated  in  this  matter." 

"Grace!"  And  Mrs.  Drummond  paused  in  awful 
silence.  Never  before  had  a  recusant  daughter 
braved  her  to  her  face. 

"I  have  not  been  well  treated,"  continued  Grace, 
firmly,  "in  a  thing  that  concerns  me  more  than  any 
one  else.  I  have  not  even  been  consulted.  You 
have  arranged  it  all,  mother,  without  reference  to 
me  or  my  feelings.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  be  grateful 
for  being  spared  so  painful  a  decision;  but  I  think 
such  a  decision  should  have  been  permitted  to 
me." 

"You  can  dare  to  tell  me  such  things  to  my  very 
face!" 

"Why  should  I  not  tell  them?"  returned  Grace, 
meeting  her  mother's  angry  glance  unflinchingly. 
"It  seems  to  me  that  one  should  speak  the  truth  to 
one's  mother.  You  have  treated  me  like  a  child; 
and  I  have  a  right  to  feel  sore  and  indignant  Why 
did  you  not  put  the  whole  thing  before  me,  and  tell 
me  that  you  and  my  father  did  not  see  how  you 
could  spare  me?  Do  you  really  believe  that  I 
should  have  been  so  wanting  in  my  sense  of  duty  as 
to  follow  my  own  pleasure?" 


152  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 


£  insist  upon  your  silence!  I  will  not  dis- 
cuss the  matter  with  you." 

"If  yr/u  insist  upon  silence,  you  must  be  obeyed, 
mother,  but  it  is  you  who  have  raised  the  question 
between  us.  But  when  you  attack  me  unjustly,  I 
must  defend  myself." 

"You  are  forgetting  yourself  strangely.  Your 
words  are  most  disrespectful  and  unbecoming  in  a 
daughter.  You  tell  me  to  my  face  that  I  am  unjust 
—  I,  your  mother  —  because  I  have  been  compelled 
to  thwart  your  wishes.  " 

"No,  no  —  not  because  of  that!"  returned  Grace, 
in  a  voice  of  passionate  pain;  "why  will  you  mis- 
understand me  so?  but  because  you  have  no  faith  in 
me.  You  treat  me  like  a  child.  You  dispute  my 
privilege  to  decide  in  a  matter  that  concerns  my  own 
happiness.  You  bid  me  work  for  you,  and  you  give 
me  no  wages  —  not  a  word  of  praise;  and  because  I 
remonstrate  for  once  in  my  life,  you  insist  on  my 
silence." 

"It  seems  that  I  am  not  to  be  obeyed." 

"Oh,  yes;  you  will  be  obeyed,  mother.  After 
to-night  I  will  not  open  my  lips  to  offend  you  again. 
If  I  have  said  more  than  I  ought  to  have  said  as  a 
daughter,  I  will  ask  your  pardon  now;  but  I  cannot 
take  back  one  of  my  words.  They  are  true  —  true." 

"I  must  say  your  apology  is  tardy,  Grace." 

"Nevertheless,  it  is  an  apology,  for,  though  you 
have  hurt  me,  I  must  not  forget  you  are  my 
mother.  I  know  my  life  will  be  harder  after  this, 
because  of  what  I  have  said,  and  yet  I  would  not 
take  back  one  of  my  words!" 

"I  am  more  displeased  with  you  than  I  can  say," 
returned  her  mother,  taking  up  her  neglected  work; 
and  her  mouth  looked  stern  and  hard. 

Never  had  her  aspect  been  so  forbidding,  and 
yet  never  had  her  daughter  feared  her  less. 

"Then,  if  you  are  displeased  with  me  1  will  go 
away,  "  replied  Grace,  moving  from  her  seat  wifh 
gentle  dignity.  "I  wish  you  had  not  compelled  me 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  168 

to  speak,  and  then  I  should  not  have  offended  you; 
but  as  it  is  there  is  no  help  for  it."  And  then  she 
gathered  up  her  work  and  walked  slowly  out  of 
the  room. 

Mrs.  Drummond  sat  moodily  in  the  empty  room 
that  had  somehow  never  seemed  so  empty  before. 
Her  attitude  was  as  rigid  and  uncompromising  as 
usual;  but  there  was  a  perplexed  frown  on  her 
brow.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  one  of  her  girls 
had  dared  to  assert  her  own  will  and  to  speak  the 
truth  to  her,  and  she  was  utterly  nonplussed.  It 
was  not  too  much  to  say  that  she  had  received  a 
blow.  Her  justice  and  sense  of  fairness  had  been 
questioned — her  very  maternal  authority  impugned 
— and  that  by  one  of  her  own  children!  Mattie, 
who  was  eight  years  older,  would  not  have  ventured 
to  cross  her  mother's  will  Grace  had  so  dared, 
and  she  was  bitterly  angry  with  her.  And  yet  she 
had  never  so  admired  her  before. 

How  honestly  and  bravely  she  had  battled  for  her 
rights!  her  gray  eyes  had  shone  with  fire,  her  pale 
cheeks  had  glowed  with  the  passion  of  her  words; 
for  once  in  her  life  the  girl  had  looked  superbly 
handsome. 

"You  have  no  faith  in  me;  you  treat  me  like  a 
child. " 

Well,  she  was  right;  it  was  no  child,  it  was  a 
proud  woman  who  was  flinging  those  hard  words  at 
her.  For  the  first  time  Mrs.  Drummond  recognized 
the  possibility  of  a  will  as  strong  as  her  own.  In 
spite  of  all  her  authority,  Grace  had  been  a  match 
for  her  mother;  Mrs.  Drummond  knew  this,  and  it 
added  fuel  to  her  bitterness. 

44 1  know  my  life  will  be  harder  for  what  I  have 
said."  Ah,  Grace  was  right  there;  it  would  be  long 
before  her  mother  would  forgive  her  for  all  those 
words,  true  as  they  were;  and  yet  in  her  heart  she 
had  never  so  feared  and  admired  her  daughter. 
Grace  went  up  to  her  own  room,  where  Dottie  was 
asleep  in  a  little  bed  very  near  her  sister's;  it  was 


154  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

dark  and  somewhat  cold,  but  the  atmosphere  was 
less  frigid  than  the  parlor  downstairs.  Grace's 
frame  was  trembling  with  the  force  of  her  emotion; 
her  face  was  burning  and  her  hands  cold.  It  was 
restful  and  soothing  to  put  down  her  aching  head 
on  the  hard  window-ledge  and  close  her  eyes  and 
think  out  the  pain!  It  seemed  hours  before  Isabel 
came  to  summon  her  to  supper,  but  she  made  an 
excuse  that  she  was  not  hungry,  and  refused  to  go 
downstairs. 

44 But  you  ate  nothing  at  tea,  and  your  head  is 
aching!"  persisted  Isabel,  who  was  a  bright,  good- 
natured  girl,  and,  in  spite  of  Archie's  strictures, 
decidedly  petty.  "Do  let  me  bring  you  something. 
Mother  will  not  know  it." 

But  Grace  refused,  she  could  not  eat,  and  the 
sight  of  food  would  distress  her. 

44Why  not  go  to  bed  at  once,  then?"  suggested 
Isabel — which  was  certainly  sensible  counsel.  But 
Grace  demurred  to  this;  she  knew  Archie  would  be 
up  presently  to  say  good- night  to  her;  so,  when 
Isabel  had  gone,  she  lighted  the  candle,  shading  it 
carefully  from  Dottie's  eyes,  and  then  she  bathed 
her  hot  face,  and  smoothed  her  hair,  and  took  up 
her  work  again. 

Archie  found  her  quite  calm  and  busy,  but  he 
was  not  so  easily  deceived. 

44 Now,  Gracie,  you  have  got  one  of  your  head- 
aches; it  is  the  disappointment  and  the  bother,  and 
my  going  away  to-morrow.  Poor  little  Gracie!" 

44  Oh,  Archie,  I  feel  as  though  I  shall  never  miss 
you  so  much,"  exclaimed  the  poor  girl,  throwing 
down  her  work  and  clinging  to  him.  44When  shall 
I  see  your  dear  face  again — not  until  Christmas." 

44 And  not  then,  I  expect.  I  shall  most  likely 
fun  down  some  time  in  January,  and  then  I  shall 
try  hard  to  take  you  back  with  me,  just  for  a  visit. 
Mattie  will  be  dull,  and  wanting  to  see  some  ot 
you,  and  I  will  not  have  one  of  the  others  until  you 
have  been." 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  155 

ctl  don't  believe  mother  will  spare  me  even  for 
that,"  returned  Grace,  with  a  sudden  conviction 
that  her  mother's  memory  was  retentive;  and  that 
she  would  be  punished  in  that  way  for  her  sins  of 
this  evening;  "but  promise  me,  Archie,  that  you 
will  come,  if  it  be  only  for  a  few  days." 

"Oh,  I  will  promise  you  that.  I  cannot  last 
longer  without  seeing  you,  Grace!"  And  he 
stroked  her  soft  hair  as  she  still  clung  to  him.  The 
next  day  Archibald  bade  his  family  good-bye;  his 
manner  had  not  changed  toward  his  mother,  and 
Mrs.  Drummond  thought  his  kiss  decidedly  cold. 

"You  will  be  good  to  Mattie,  and  try  to  make 
the  poor  girl  happy;  you  will  do  at  least  as  much  as 
this,"  she  said,  detaining  him  as  he  was  turning 
from  her  to  seek  Grace. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will  be  good  to  her,"  he  returned,  in- 
differently, "but  1  cannot  promise  that  she  will  not 
find  her  life  dull."  And  then  he  took  Grace  in  his 
arms,  and  whispered  to  her  to  be  patient,  and  that 
all  would  be  well  one  day;  and  Mrs.  Drummond, 
though  she  did  not  hear  the  whisper,  saw  the  em- 
brace, and  the  long,  lingering  look  between  the 
brother  and  sister,  and  pressed  her  thin  lips 
together  and  went  back  to  her  parlor  and  mending- 
basket,  feeling  herself  an  unhappy  mother,  whose 
love  was  not  requitted  by  her  children,  and  disposed 
to  be  harder  than  ever  toward  Grace,  who  had  in- 
flicted this  pain  on  her. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A    VAN    in    THE    BRAIDWOOD    ROAD. 

One  bright  July  morning,  Mattie  Drummond 
walked  rapidly  up  the  Braidwood  Road,  and.  un- 
latching the  green  door  in  the  wall,  let  herself  inco 
the  large  square  hall  of  the  vicarage.  This  morn- 
ing it  looked  invitingly  cool,  with  its  summer 
matting  and  big  wicker-work  chairs;  but  Mattie 


156  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

was  in  too  great  haste  to  linger;  she  only  stopped  to 
disencumber  herself  of  the  various  parcels  with 
which  she  was  laden,  and  then  she  knocked  at  the 
door  of  her  brother's  study,  and  without  waiting 
for  the  reluctant  "Come  in"  that  always  answered 
her  hasty  rap,  burst  in  upon  him. 

It  was"  now  three  months  since  Mattie  had  entered 
upon  her  new  duties,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that 
Archie's  housekeeper  had  rather  a  hard  time  of  it. 
As  far  as  actual  management  went,  Mattie  fully 
justified  her  mother's  eulogiums;  in  her  household 
arrangements  she  was  orderly  and  methodical — far 
more  so  than  Grace  would  have  been  in  her  place; 
the  meals  were  always  punctual  and  well  served, 
the  domestic  machinery  worked  well  and  smoothly. 
Archie  never  had  to  complain  of  a  missing  button 
or  a  frayed  wristband.  Nevertheless,  Mattie's 
presence  at  the  vicarage  was  felt  by  her  brother  as 
a  sore  burden.  There  was  nothing  in  common  be- 
tween them,  nothing  that  he  cared  to  discuss  with 
her,  or  on  which  he  wished  to  know  her  opinion;  he 
was  naturally  a  frank,  outspoken  man,  one  that 
demanded  sympathy  from  those  belonging  to  him; 
but  with  Mattie  he  was  reticent,  and,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, restrained  in  speech. 

One  reason  for  this  might  be  that  Mattie,  with 
all  her  virtues — and  she  was  really  a  most  estimable 
little  person — was  sadly  deficient  in  tact.  She 
never  knew  when  she  was  treading  on  other 
people's  pet  prejudices.  She  could  not  be  made  to 
understand  that  her  presence  was  not  always 
wanted,  and  that  it  was  as  well  to  keep  silence 
sometimes. 

She  would  intrude  her  advice  when  it  was  not 
needed,  in  her  good-natured  way,  she  had  always 
interfered  with  everything  and  everybody.  "Med- 
dlesome Mattie"  they  had  called  her  at  home. 

She  was  so  wonderfully  elastic,  too,  in  her  tem- 
perament, that  nothing  long  depressed  her.  She 
took  all  her  brother's  snubbings  in  excellent  part; 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  157 

if  he  scolded  her  at  dinner-time,  and  made  the 
ready  tears  come  to  her  eyes — for  it  was  not  the 
least  of  Mattie's  sins  that  she  cried  easily  and  on 
every  possible  occasion — she  had  forgotten  it  by  tea- 
time,  and  would  chatter  to  him  as  happily  as  ever. 

She  was  just  one  of  those  persevering  people  who 
seem  bound  to  be  snubbed;  one  can  not  help  it.  It 
was  as  natural  to  scold  Mattie  as  it  was  to  praise 
other  people,  and  yet  it  was  impossible  not  to  like 
the  little  woman,  though  she  had  no  fine  feelings, 
as  Archie  said,  and  was  not  thin-skinned.  Grace 
always  spoke  a  good  word  for  her,  she  was  very 
kind  to  Mattie  in  her  way — though  it  must  be 
owned  that  she  showed  her  small  respect  as  an 
elder  sister.  None  of  her  brothers  and  sisters 
respected  Mattie  in  the  least;  they  laughed  at  her 
and  took  liberties  with  her,  presuming  largely  on 
her  good  nature.  "It  is  only  Mattie;  nobody  cares 
what  she  thinks/*  as  Clyde  would  often  say.  *'Matt 
the  Muddler,"  as  Frederick  named  her. 

"I  wonder  what  Mattie  would  say  if  any  one  ever 
fell  in  love  with  her?"  Grace  once  observed  in  fun 
to  Archie.  "Do  you  know,  I  think  she  would  be 
all  her  life  thanking  her  husband  for  the  unexpected 
honor  he  had  done  her,  and  trying  to  prove  to  him 
that  he  had  not  made  such  a  great  mistake,  after 
all." 

"Mattie's  husband!  He  must  be  an  odd  sort  of 
person,  I  should  think."  And  then  Archie  laughed, 
in  not  the  politest  manner.  Certainly  Mattie  was 
not  appreciated  by  her  family.  She  was  not  looking 
her  best  this  morning  when  she  went  into  her 
brother's  study.  She  wore  the  offending  plaid 
dress — a  particularly  large  black-and-white  check 
that  he  thought  especially  ugly.  Her  hat-trim- 
mings were  frayed,  and  the  straw  itself  was  burned 
brown  by  the  sun,  and  her  hair  was  ill  arranged 
and  rough,  for  she  never  wasted  much  time  on  her 
own  person,  and,  to  crown  the  whole,  she  looked 
flushed  and  heated. 


158  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Archie,  who  was  sitting  at  his  writing-table  in 
severely  cut  ecclesiastical  garments,  looking  as 
trim  and  well  appointed  a  young  clergyman  as  one 
might  wish  to  see,  might  be  forgiven  for  the  tone 
of  ill-suppressed  irritation  with  which  he  said: 

"Oh,  Mattie!  what  a  figure  you  look!  I  am  posi- 
tively ashamed  that  any  one  should  see  youc  That 
hat  is  only  fit  to  frighten  the  birds." 

"Oh,  it  will  do  very  well  for  the  mornings,"  re- 
turned Mattie,  perfectly  undisturbed  at  tnese  com- 
pliments. "Nobody  looks  at  me,  so  what  does  it 
matter?"  But  this  remark,  which  she  made  in  all 
simplicity,  only  irritated  him  more. 

"If  you  have  no  proper  pride,  you  might  at  least 
consider  my  feelings.  Do  you  think  a  man  in  my 
position  likes  his  sister  to  go  about  like  an  old 
beggar-woman?  You  are  enough  to  try  any  one's 
patience,  Mattie;  you  are,  indeed!" 

"Oh,  never  mind  me  and  my  things,"  returned 
Mattie,  coaxingly,  "and  don't  go  on  writing  just 
yet,"  for  Archie  had  taken  up  his  pen  again  with  a 
great  show  of  being  busy.  "I  want  to  tell  you 
something  that  I  know  will  interest  you.  There 
are  some  new  people  come  to  the  Friary." 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?  what  Friary?  I 
am  sure  I  never  heard  of  such  a  place." 

"Dear  me,  Archie,  how  cross  you  are  this  morn- 
ing!" observed  Mattie,  in  a  cheerful  voice,  as  she 
fidgeted  the  papers  on  the  table.  "Why,  the  Friary 
is  that  shabby  little  cottage  just  above  us — not  a 
stone's-throw  from  this  house." 

"Indeed!  Well,  I  cannot  say  I  am  much  inter- 
ested in  the  movements  of  my  neighbors.  I  am  not 
a  gossip  like  you,  Mattie!" — another  fling  at  poor 
Mattie.  "I  wish  you  would  leave  those  papers 
alone.  You  know  I  never  allow  my  things  to  be 
tidied,  as  you  call  it,  and  I  am  really  very  busy  just 
now.  I  am  in  the  middle  of  accounts,  and  I  have 
to  write  to  Grace,  and — " 

"Well,  I  thought  you  would  like  to  know."    And 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  159 

Mattie  looked  rather  crestfallen  and  disappointed. 
44  You  talked  so  much  about  those  young  ladies  some 
weeks  ago,  and  seemed  quite  sorry  not  to  see  them 
again;  and,  now — "but  here  Archie's  indifference 
vanished,  and  he  looked  up  eagerly. 

"What  young  ladies?  Not  those  in  Milner's 
Library,  who  asked  about  the  dressmaker?" 

"The  very  same,"  returned  his  sister,  delighted 
at  this  change  of  manner.  "Oh,  I  have  so  much  to 
tell  you  that  I  must  sit  down,"  planting  herself 
comfortably  on  the  arm  of  an  easy-chair  near  him. 
Another  time  Archie  would  have  rebuked  her  for 
the  unlady-like  attitude,  and  told  her,  probably,  that 
Grace  never  did  such  things;  but  now  his  interest 
was  so  excited  that  he  let  it  pass  for  once.  He  even 
suffered  her  to  take  off  her  old  hat  and  deposit  it 
unreproved  on  the  top  of  his  cherished  papers.  "1 
was  over  at  Crump's  this  morning,  to  speak  to  Bob- 
bie about  weeding  the  garden,  when  I  was  surprised 
to  see  a  railway  van  unloading  furniture  at  the 
Friary." 

"What  an  absurd  name!"  sotto voce  from  Archie; 
but  he  offered  no  further  check  to  Mattie's  gossip. 

"I  asked  Mrs.  Crump,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the 
name  of  the  new  people;  and  she  said  it  was  Chal- 
loner.  There  were  a  mother  and  three  daughters, 
she  believed.  She  had  seen  two  of  them — pretty, 
nice-spoken  young  creatures,  and  quite  ladies. 

They  had  been  down  before  to  see  the  cottage 
and  to  have  it  done  up.  It  looks  quite  a  different 
place  already — nicely  painted,  and  the  shrubs 
trimmed.  The  door  was  open,  and  as  I  stood  at 
Mrs.  Crump's  window,  peeping  between  her  gera- 
niums, I  saw  such  a  respectable,  gray-haired 
woman,  like  an  upper  servant,  carrying  something 
into  the  house;  and  a  moment  after  one  of  those 
young  ladies  we  saw  in  the  Library — not  the  pretty 
one,  but  the  other — came  to  the  door  and  spoke  to 
the  men." 

"Are  you  sure  you  did  not  make  a  mistake,  Mat- 


160  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

tie?"  asked  her  brother,  incredulously.  "You  are 
very  short-sighted;  perhaps  you  did  not  see  cor- 
rectly. How  can  those  stylish-looking  girls  live  in 
such  a  shabby  place?  I  can  hardly  believe  it  poss*- 
ble." 

44  Oh,  it  was  the  same,  I  am  positive  about  that. 
She  was  in  the  same  cambric  dress  you  admired. 
I  could  see  distinctly.  I  watched  her  for  a  long 
time,  and  then  the  pretty  one  came  out  and  joined 
her.  She  is  pretty,  Archie ;  she  has  such  a  lovely 
complexion." 

"But  are  they  poor? — they  don't  look  so.  What 
on  earth  can  it  means?"  he  asked,  in  a  perplexed 
voice;  but  Mattie  only  shook  her  head  and  went  on: 

"We  must  find  out  all  about  them  by  and  by. 
They  are  worth  knowing.  I  am  sure  of  that. 
Poor? — well,  they  can  not  be  rich,  certainly,  to  live 
in  the  Friary:  but  they  are  gentlepeople ;  one  can 
see  that  in  a  moment." 

"Of  course!  who  doubted  it?"  was  the  somewhat 
impatient  answer. 

"Well,  but  that  is  not  all,"  went  on  Mattie,  too  de- 
lighted with  her  brother's  interest  to  try  to  curtail 
her  story.  "Of  course  I  could  not  stand  long 
watching  them,  so  I  did  my  errand  and  came  away; 
and  then  I  met  Miss  Middleton,  and  we  walked 
down  to  the  Library  together  to  change  those  books. 
Miss  Milner  was  talking  to  some  ladies  when  we  first 
went  in,  as  Miss  Masham  was  not  in  the  shop,  we 
had  to  wait  our  turn,  so  I  had  a  good  look  at  them.  . 
The  elder  one  was  such  a  pretty,  aristocratic-look-  / 
ing  woman — a  little  too  languid,  perhaps,  for  my 
taste;  and  the  younger  one  was  a  little  like  Isabel, 
only  nicer  looking.  1  shouldn't  have  stared  at 
them  so  much — at  least,  I  am  afraid  I  stared,"  went 
on  Mattie,  forgetting  for  the  moment  how  often  she 
had  been  taken  to  task  for  this  very  thing — "but 
something  Miss  Milner  said  attracted  my  attention. 
*I  am  not  to  send  it  to  the  Friary,  then,  ma'am?' 
*Well,  no/  the  lady  returned,  rather  hesitatingly. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  161 

She  had  such  a  nice  voice  and  manner,  Archie. 
'My  youngest  daughter  and  I  are  at  Beach  House 
at  present.  I  am  rather  an  invalid,  and  the  bustle 
would  he  too  much  for  me.  Dulce,  we  had  better 
have  these  things  sent  to  Beach  House.'  And  then 
the  young  lady  standing  by  her  said,  *Oh,  yes, 
mother;  we  shall  want  them  this  evening.'  And 
then  they  went  out." 

"There  is  a  third  sister,  then?"  observed  Archie, 
not  pretending  to  disguise  his  interest  in  Mattie's 
recital. 

"Yes,  there  is  a  third  one;  she  is  certainly  a  little 
like  Isabel;  she  has  a  dimple  like  hers,  and  is  of  the 
same  height.  I  asked  Miss  Milner,  when  they  were 
out  of  hearing,  if  their  name  was  Challoner,  and  if 
they  were  the  new  people  who  were  coming  to  live 
at  the  empty  cottage  on  the  Braidwood  Road.  I 
thought  she  did  not  seem  much  disposed  to  give  me 
information.  Yes,  their  name  was  Challoner,  and 
they  had  taken  the  Friary;  but  they  were  quite 
strangers  in  the  town,  and  no  one  knew  anything 
about  them.  And  then  Miss  Middleton  chimed  in; 
she  said  her  father  had  noticed  the  young  ladies 
some  weeks  ago,  and  had  called  her  attention  to 
them.  They  were  very  pretty  girls,  and  had  quite 
taken  his  fancy;  he  had  not  forgotten  them,  and  had 
spoken  of  them  that  very  morning.  She  supposed 
Mrs.  Challoner  must  be  a  widow,  0nd  not  very  well 
off;  did  Miss  Milner  know?  Would  you  believe  it, 
Archie?  Miss  Milner  got  quite  red  and  looked  con- 
fused. You  know  how  she  enjoys  a  bit  of  gossip 
generally,  but  the  questions  seemed  to  trouble  her. 
'They  were  not  at  all  well  off,  she  knew  that,  but 
nicer  young  ladies  she  had  never  seen,  or  wished  to 
see,  and  she  hoped  every  one  would  be  kind  to 
them,  and  not  forget  they  were  real  born  ladies,  in 
spite  of — '  And  here  the  old  thing  got  more  con- 
fused than  ever,  and  came  to  a  full  stop,  and 
begged  to  know  how  she  could  serve  us." 

"It    is    very    strange— very     strange,    indeed," 

U  Girls. 


162  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

returned  her  brother,  in  a  meditative  voice;  but,  as 
Mattie  had  nothing  more  to  tell  him,  he  did  not 
discuss  the  matter  any  further,  only  thanked  her 
for  her  news,  and  civilly  dismissed  her  on  the  plea 
that  his  business  was  at  a  standstill. 

But  he  did  not  resume  his  accounts  for  some  time 
after  he  was  left  alone.  Instead  of  doing  so,  he 
walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out  in  a  singularly 
absent  manner.  Mattie's  news  was  somewhat  ex- 
citing. The  idea  of  having  such  pleasant  neighbors 
located  within  a  stone's-throw  of  the  vicarage  was 
in  itself  disturbing  to  the  imagination  of  a  young 
man  of  eight-and- twenty,  even  though  a  clergyman. 
And  then,  it  must  be  confessed,  Nan's  charming 
face  and  figure  had  never  been  forgotten;  he  had 
looked  out  for  the  sisters  many  times  since  his 
chance  encounter  with  Philhs,  and  had  been  secretly 
disappointed  at  their  total  disappearance.  And  now 
they  proved  not  mere  visitors,  but  positively  inhab- 
itants of  Hadleigh.  He  would  meet  them  every 
day;  and,  as  there  was  but  one  church  in  the  place, 
they  would  of  course  be  numbered  among  his  flock. 
As  their  future  clergyman  he  would  have  a  right  of 
entrance  to  the  cottage. 

41  How  soon  do  you  think  we  ought  to  call  upon 
them,  Mattie?"  he  asked,  when  he  was  seated  oppo- 
site to  his  sister  at  the  luncheon-table.  The  accounts 
had  not  progressed  very  favorably,  and  the  letter  to 
Grace  was  not  yet  commenced.  Mattie's  news  had 
been  a  sad  interruption  to  his  morning's  work. 

"Whom  do  you  mean,  Archie?"  she  returned,  a 
little  bewildered  at  this  abrupt  remark ;  and  then, 
as  he  frowned  at  her  denseness,  she  bethought  her- 
self of  the  new  people.  It  was  not  often  Archie 
asked  her  advice  about  anything,  but  on  this  occa- 
sion the  young  vicar  felt  himself  incompetent  to 
decide. 

"I  suppose  you  mean  the  new  folk  at  the  Friary," 
she  continued,  carelessly.  "Oh,  they  are  only 
moving  in  to-day,  and  they  will  be  in  a  muddle  for 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  163 

a  week,  I  should,  think.  I  don't  think  we  can  in- 
trude for  ten  days  or  so." 

4 'Not  if  you  think  it  will  be  intrusive,"  he  re- 
turned, rather  anxiously;  "but  they  are  strangers 
in  the  place,  and  all  ladies — there  does  not  seem  to 
be  a  man  belonging  to  them — would  it  not  be 
neighborly,  as  we  live  so  close,  just  to  call,  not  in  a 
formal  way,  you  know,  but  just  to  volunteer  help? 
There  are  little  things  you  could  do  for  them,  Mat- 
tie:  and,  as  a  clergyman,  they  could  not  regard  my 
visit  as  an  intrusion,  I  should  think.  Do  you  not 
agree  with  me?"  looking  at  his  sister  rather 
gravely. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mattie,  bluntly; 
41 1  should  not  care  for  strangers  prying  into  my  con- 
cerns, if  I  were  in  their  place.  And  yet,  as  you 
say,  we  are  such  close  neighbors,  and  one  would 
like  to  be  kind  to  the  poor  things,  for  they  must  be 
lonely,  settling  in  a  strange,  new  place.  I'll  tell 
you  what,  Archie,"  as  his  face  fell  at  this  matter-of- 
fact  speech;  4'it  is  Thursday,  and  they  will  be  sure 
to  be  at  church  on  Sunday;  we  shall  see  them 
there,  and  that  will  be  an  excuse  for  us  to  call  on 
Monday.  We  can  say  then  that  we  are  neighbors, 
and  that  we  would  not  wait  until  they  were  all  in 
order.  We  can  offer  to  send  them  things  from  the 
vicarage,  or  volunteer  help  in  many  little  ways.  I 
think  that  would  be  best." 

44Yes,  , perhaps  you  are  right,  and  we  will  wait 
until  Monday,"  returned  Archie,  taking  down  his 
soft  felt  hat  "Now  I  must  go  on  my  rounds,  and 
not  waste  any  more  time  chattering."  But,  though 
he  spoke  with  unusual  good  nature,  he  did  not  in- 
vite Mattie  to  be  his  companion,  and  the  poor  little 
woman  betook  herself  to  the  solitary  drawing-room 
and  some  plain  sewing  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 

The  young  clergyman  stood  for  a  moment  irreso- 
lutely at  the  green  door,  and  cast  a  longing  glance  in 
the  direction  of  the  Friary,  where  the  van  was  still 
unloading,  and  then  he  bethought  himself  that, 


164  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

though  Mattie  had  given  orders  about  the  weeding 
of  the  garden  paths,  it  would  be  as  well  to  speak  to 
Crump  about  the  wire  fence  that  was  wanted  for 
the  poultry-yard;  and  as  soon  as  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  on  this  point  he  walked  on  briskly. 

The  last  piece  of  furniture  had  just  been  carried 
in;  but,  as  Mr.  Drummond  was  picking  his  way 
through  the  straw  and  debris  that  littered  the  side 
path,  two  girlish  figures  came  out  of  the  dooi-way 
full  upon  him. 

He  raised  his  hat  involuntarily,  but  they  drew 
back  at  once;  and,  as 'he  went  on,  confused  at  this 
sudden  reencounter,  the  sound  of  a  light  laugh 
greeted  his  ear. 

44 How  annoying  that  we  should  always  be  meet- 
ing him!"  observed  Nan,  innocently.  "Don't 
laugh,  Phillis;  he  will  hear  you.'* 

64My  dear,  it  must  be  fate,"  returned  Phillis, 
solemnly.  44I  shall  think  it  my  duty  to  wrarn  Dick 
if  this  goes  on."  But,  in  spite  of  her  mischievous 
speech,  she  darted  a  quick,  interested  look  after  the 
handsome  young  clergyman  as  he  walked  on.  Both 
the  girls  stood  in  the  porch  for  some  minutes  after 
they  had  made  their  retreat.  They  had  come  out 
to  cool  themselves  and  to  get  a  breath  of  air,  until 
a  July  sun  and  Mr.  Drummond's  sudden  appearance 
defeated  their  intention.  They  had  no  idea  that 
they  were  watched  from  behind  the  screening 
geraniums  in  Mrs.  Crump's  window.  Both  of  them 
were  enveloped  in  Dorothy's  bib-aprons,  which  hid 
their  pretty  rounded  figures.  Phillis's  cheeks  were 
flushed,  and  her  arms  were  bare  to  the  dimpled 
elbows,  and  Nan's  brown  hair  was  slightly  dis- 
heveled. 

44  We  look  just  like  cooks!"  exclaimed  Phillis.  re- 
garding her  coarse  apron  with  disfavor;  but  Nan 
stretched  her  arms  with  a  little  indifference  and 
weariness. 

"What  does  it  matter  how  we  look — like  cooks  or 
housemaids?  I  am  dreadfully  tired;  but  we  must 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  165 

go  in  and  work,  Phil.  I  wonder  what  has  become 
of  Dulce?"  And  then  the  charming  vision  dis- 
appeared from  the  young-  clergyman's  eyes,  and  he 
was  free  to  fix  his  mind  o^  the  wire  fence  that  was 
required  for  the  poultry- yard. 

As  soon  as  he  had  accomplished  his  errand  he  set 
his  face  towaid  the  vicarage,  for  he  made  up  his 
mind  suddenly  that  he  would  call  on  the  Middletons, 
and  perhaps  on  Mrs.  Cheyne.  The  latter  was  a 
duty  that  he  owed  to  his  pastoral  conscience:  but 
there  was  no  need  for  him  to  go  to  the  Middletons'. 
Nevertheless,  the  father  and  daughter  were  his 
most  intimate  friends,  and  on  all  occasions  he  was 
sure  of  Miss  Middleton's  sympathy.  They  lived  at 
Brooklyn — a  low  white  house,  he  always  thought,  so 
well  arranged  and  well  managed;  and  the  garden 
—  that  was  the  colonel's  special  hobby — was  as 
pretty  as  a  garden  could  be.  The  drawing-room 
looked  shady  and  comfortable,  for  the  French  win- 
dows opened  into  a  cool  veranda,  fitted  up  with  flow 
er-baskets  and  wicker  chairs;  and  beyond  lay  the 
trim  lawn,  with  beds  of  blazing  verbenas  and  cal- 
ceolarias. Miss  Middleton's  work-table  was  just 
within  one  of  the  windows;  but  the  colonel,  in  his 
gray  summer  suit,  reclined  in  a  lounging-chair  in 
the  veranda.  He  was  reading  the  paper  to  his 
daughter,  and  was  just  in  the  middle  of  the  last 
night's  debate;  nevertheless,  he  threw  it  aside, 
well  pleased  at  the  interruption. 

"I  knew  how  I  would  find  you  occupied,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Drummond,  as  he  exchanged  a  smile 
with  Miss  Middleton.  He  was  fully  aware  that 
politics  were  not  to  her  taste,  and  yet  every  after- 
noon she  listened  to  such  reading,  well  content  even 
with  the  sound  of  her  father's  voice. 

Elizabeth  Middleton  was  certainly  a  charming 
person.  Phillis  had  called  her  the  "gray-haired 
girl,"  and  the  title  suited  her.  She  was  not  a  girl 
by  an  means,  having  reached  her  six-and-thirtieth 
year;  but  her  hair  was  as  silvery  as  an  old  woman's, 


166  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

gray  and  plentiful,  and  soft  as  silk,  and  contrasted 
strangely  with  her  still  youthful  face. 

Without  being  handsome,  Elizabeth  Middleton 
was  beautiful  Her  expression  was  sweet  and  rest- 
ful, and  attracted  all  hearts.  People  who  were  ac- 
quainted with  her  said  she  was  the  happiest  creat- 
ure they  knew — that  she  simply  diffused  sunshine 
by  her  mere  presence;  such  a  contrast,  they  -would 
add,  to  her  neighbor  Mrs.  Cheyne,  who  bore  all  her 
troubles  badly,  and  was  of  a  proud,  fretful  disposi- 
tion. But  then  Mrs.  Cheyne  had  lost  her  husband 
and  her  two  children,  and  led  such  a  sad,  lonely 
life;  and  no  such  troubles  had  fallen  to  Miss  Mid- 
dleton. 

Elizabeth  Middleton  could  afford  to  be  happy, 
they  said,  for  she  was  the  delight  of  her  father's 
eyes.  Her  young  half-brother,  Hammond,  who  was 
with  his  regiment  in  India,  was  not  nearly  so  dear 
to  the  old  man;  and  of  course  that  was  why  she  had 
never  married,  that  her  father's  house  might  not  be 
left  desolate. 

This  is  how  people  talked  ;  but  not  a  single  person 
in  Hadleigh  knew  that*  Elizabeth  Middleton  had 
had  a  great  sorrow  in  her  life. 

She  had  been  engaged  for  some  years  most  hap- 
pily, and  with  her  father's  consent,  to  one  of  his 
brother  officers.  Captain  Sedgwick  was  of  good 
family,  but  poor;  and  they  were  waiting  for  his 
promotion,  for  at  that  time  Colonel  Middleton  would 
have  been  unable  to  give  his  daughter  any  dowry. 
Elizabeth  was  young  and  happy,  and  she  could 
afford  to  wait.  No  girl  ever  gloried  in  her  lover 
more  than  she  did  in  hers.  Capel  Sedgwick  was 
not  only  brave  and  singularly  handsome,  but  he 
bore  a  reputation  through  the  whole  regiment  for 
having  a  higher  standard  of  duty  than  most  men. 

Promotion  came  at  last,  and,  just  as  Elizabeth 
was  gayly  making  preparations  for  her  marriage, 
fatal  tidings  were  brought  to  her.  Major  Sedg- 
wick had  gone  to  visit  an  old  servant  in  the  hospital 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  167 

who  had  been  struck  down  with  cholera;  he  had  re- 
mained with  hitn  some  time,  and  on  his  return  to 
his  bungalow  the  same  fell  disease  had  attacked 
him,  and  before  many  hours  were  over  he  was  dead. 
The  shock  was  a  terrible  one;  in  the  first  moments 
of  her  bitter  loss,  Elizabeth  cried  out  that  her  mis- 
ery was  too  great — that  all  happiness  was  over  for 
her  in  this  world,  and  that  she  only  prayed  that  she 
might  be  buried  in  the  same  grave  with  Capel. 

The  light  had  not  yet  come  to  the  poor  soul  that 
felt  itself  afflicted  past  endurance  and  could  find  no 
reason  for  such  pain.  It  could  not  be  said  that 
Elizabeth  bore  her  trouble  better  than  other  girls 
would  have  born  their  under  like  circumstances. 
She  fretted  and  grew  thin,  and  dashed  herself 
wildly  against  the  inevitable,  only  reproacning  her- 
self for  her  selfishness  and  want  of  submission  when 
she  looked  at  her  father's  care-worn  face. 

But  then  came  a  time  when  light  and  peace  re- 
visited the  wrecked  heart — when  confused  reason- 
ings no  longer  beset  the  poor  weak  brain  and  rilled 
it  with  dismay  and  doubt — when  the  Divine  will 
became  her  will,  and  there  was  no  longer  submis- 
sion, but  a  joyful  surrender.  And  no  one,  and  least 
of  all  she  herself,  knew  when  the  darkness  was  van- 
quished by  that  clear  uprising  of  pure  radiance,  or 
how  those  brooding  wings  of  peace  settled  on  her 
soul.  From  that  time,  every  human  being  that 
came  within  her  radius  was  welcome  as  a  new  ob- 
ject of  love.  To  give,  and  yet  to  give,  and  never  to 
be  satisfied,  was  a  daily  necessity  of  life  to  Eliza- 
beth. "Now  there  is  some  one  more  to  love,"  she 
would  say  to  herself,  when  a  new  acquaintance  was 
brought  to  her;  and,  as  the  old  adage  is  true  that 
tells  us  \o\  e  begets  love,  there  was  no  more  popu- 
lar person  in  Hadleigh  than  Elizabeth  Middleton. 
She  had  something  to  say  in  praise  of  every  one; 
not  that  she  was  blind  to  the  faitlts  of  her  neighbors, 
but  she  preferred  to  be  silent  and  ignore  them. 

And  she  was  especially  kind  to  Mattie.      In  the 


168  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

early  days  of  their  intimacy,  the  young  vicar  woulr? 
often  speak  to  her  of  his  sister  Grace  and  lament 
their  enforced  separation  from  each  other.  Miss 
Middleton  listened  sympathetically,  with  the  same 
sweet  attention  that  she  gave  to  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  that  laid  claim  to  it;  but  once,  when  he 
had  finished,  she  said,  rather  gravely: 

44  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Drummond,  that  1  think 
your  mother  was  right?" 

"Right  in  dooming  Grace  to  such  a  life?"  he  said, 
pausing  in  utter  surprise  at  her  remark. 

44 Pardon  me;  it  is  not  her  mother  who  dooms 
her,"  returned  Miss  Middleton,  quickly,  *4but  duty 
— her  own  sense  of  right — everything  that  is  sacred. 
If  Mrs.  Drummond  had  not  decided  that  she  could 
not  be  spared,  I  am  convinced,  from  all  you  tell 
me.  that  Grace  would  still  have  remained  at  home; 
her  conscience  would  have  been  too  strong  for  her." 

44 Well,  perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  admitted,  re- 
luctantly. 44Grace  is  a  noble  creature,  and  capable 
of  any  amount  of  self-sacrifice." 

*4I  am  sure  of  it,"  returned  Miss  Middleton,  with- 
sparkling  eyes.  "How  I  should  like  to  know  her! 
it  would  be  a  real  pleasure  and  privilege;  but  I  am 
very  fond  of  your  sister  Mattie,  too." 

"Fond  of  Mattie!"  It  was  hardly  brotherly,  but 
he  could  not  help  that  incredulous  tone  in  his  voice. 
How  could  such  a  superior  woman  as  Miss  Middle- 
ton  be  even  tolerant  of  Mattie? 

44Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  quite  calmly;  "I  have  a 
great  respect  for  your  sister  She  is  so  unselfish 
and  amiable,  and  there  is  something  so  genuine  in 
her.  Before  everything  one  wants  truth,"  finished 
Elizabeth,  taking  up  her  work. 

Now,  as  the  young  clergyman  entered  the  room, 
she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him  with  her  usual 
beaming  smile. 

'"This  is  good  of  you,  to  come  so  soon  again," 
she  saic!,  making  room  for  him  between  her  father 
and  herself,  "But  why  have  you  not  brought  Mat- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS  16d 

tie?1*  and  Archie  felt  as  though  lie  had  received  a 

rebuke. 

*4She  is  finishing  some  work,"  he  returned,  a  lit- 
tle confused;  "that  is,  what  you  ladies  call  workc 
It  is  not  always  necessary  for  the  clergywoman  to 
pay  visits,  is  it?" 

44 The  clergywoman,  as  you  call  her  is  doing  too 
much.  I  was  scolding  her  this  morning  for  not 
sparing  herself  more;  I  thought  she  was  not  look- 
ing quite  well,  Mr.  Drummond." 

"Oh,  Mattie  is  well  enough,"  he  replied,  care- 
lessly. He  had  not  come  to  talk  about  his  sister; 
a  far  more  interesting  subject  was  in  his  mind. 
"Do  you  know,  colonel,"  he  went  on,  with  some 
animation,  "that  you  and  I  have  new  neighbors? 
Do  you  remember  the  young  ladies  in  the  blue  cam- 
bric dresses?"  And  at  this  question  the  colonel 
threw  aside  his  paper  at  once, 

"Elizabeth  has  been  telling  me.  I  remember  the 
young  ladies  perfectly.  I  could  not  help  noticing 
them.  They  walked  so  well — heads  up,  and  as  neat 
and  trim  as  though  they  were  on  parade;  pretty 
creatures,  both  of  them.  Elizabeth  pretends  not 
to  be  interested,  but  she  is  quite  excited.  Look  at 
her!" 

"Nay,  father,  it  is  you  who  can  talk  of  nothing 
else;  but  it  will  be  very  nice  to  have  such  pleasant 
neighbors.  How  soon  do  you  think  we  may  call  on 
them?" 

And  then  Archie  explained,  with  some  little  em- 
barrassment, that  he  and  Mattie  thought  of  calling 
the  following  Monday  and  offering  their  services. 

"That  is  very  thoughtful  of  Mattie.  She  is  such 
a  kind-hearted  little  creature,  and  is  always  ready 
to  serve  everybody." 

And  then  they  entered  into  a  discussion  on  the 
new-comers  that  lasted  so  long  that  the  tea-things 
made  their  appearance;  and  shortly  afterward  Mr. 
Drummond  announced  that  he  must  go  and  call  on 
Mrs.  Cheyne. 


170  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS* 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A    VISIT    TO    THE    WHITE    HOUSE. 

Hitherto  Mr.  Drummond  had  acknowledged  this 
afternoon  to  be  a  success.  He  had  obtained  a 
glimpse  of  the  new-comers  through  Mrs.  Crump's 
screen  of  geraniums,  and  had  listened  with  much 
interest  to  Colonel  Middleton's  innocent  gossip, 
while  Miss  Middleton  had  poured  out  their  tea.  In- 
deed, his  attention  had  quite  flattered  his  host. 

"Really,  Drummond  is  a  very  intelligent  fellow," 
he  observed  to  his  daughter,  when  they  were  at  last 
left  alone — "a  very  intelligent  fellow,  and  so  thor- 
oughly gentlemanly." 

"Yes,  he  is  very  nice,"  returned  Elizabeth;  "and 
he  seems  wonderfully  interested  in  our  new  neigh- 
bors. "  And  here  she  smiled  a  little  archly. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Drummond  had 
fully  enjoyed  his  visit  Nevertheless,  as  he  left 
Brooklyn,  and  set  his  face  toward  the  White  House, 
his  manner  changed,  and  his  face  became  somewhat 
grave. 

He  had  told  himself  that  he  owed  it  to  his  pas- 
toral  conscience  to  call  on  Mrs.  Cheyne;  but,  not- 
withstanding this  admonition,  he  disliked  the  duty, 
for  he  always  felt  on  these  occasions  that  he  was 
hardly  up  to  his  office,  and  that  this  solitary  member 
ot  his  flock  was  not  disposed  to  yield  herself  to  his 
guidance.  He  was  ready  to  pity  her  if  she  would 
allow  herself  to  be  pitied;  but  any  expression  of 
sympathy  seemed  repugnant  to  her.  Any  one  so 
utterly  lonely,  so  absolutely  without  interest  in  ex- 
istence, he  had  never  seen  or  thought  to  see;  and 
yet  he  c  ,uld  not  bring  himself  to  like  her,  or  to  say 
more  than  the  mere  commonplace  utterances  of 
society.  Though  he  wa^  her  clergyman,  and  bound 
by  the  sacredness  of  his  office  to  be  specially  ten- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  171 

der  to  the  bruised  and  maimed  ones  of  his  flock,  he 
could  not  get  her  to  acknowledge  her  maimed  con- 
dition to  him,  or  to  do  anything  but  listen  to  him 
with  cold  attention  when  he  hinted  vaguely  that  all 
human  beings  are  in  need  of  sympathy.  Perhaps 
she  thought  him  too  young,  and  feared  to  find  his 
judgments  immature  and  one-sided;  but  certainly 
his  visits  to  the  White  House  were  failures.  Mrs. 
Cheyne  was  still  young  enough  and  handsome 
enough  to  need  some  sort  of  chaperonage;  and 
though  she  professed  to  mock  at  conventionality, 
she  acknowledged  its  claims  in  this  respect,  by 
securing  the  permanent  services  of  Miss  Mewlstone 
—a  lady  of  uncertain  age  and  uncertain  acquire- 
ments. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  every  one  wondered  at 
Mrs.  Cheyne  and  her  choice,  for  no  one  could  be 
less  companionable  than  Miss  Mewlstone. 

She  was  a  stout,  sleepy- looking  woman,  with  a 
soft  voice,  and  in  placidity  and  a  certain  coziness  of 
exterior  somewhat  resembled  a  large  white  cat. 
Some  people  declared  she  absolutely  purred;  and 
certainly  her  small  blue  eyes  were  ready  to  close  cm 
all  occasions.  She  always  dressed  in  gray — a  very 
unbecoming  color  to  a  stout  person — and  when  not 
asleep  or  reading  (for  she  was  a  great  reader)  she 
seemed  always  busy  with  a  mass  of  soft,  fleecy 
wool.  No  one  ever  heard  her  voluntarily  convers- 
ing with  her  patroness.  They  would  drive  together 
for  hours  or  pass  whole  evenings  in  the  same  room, 
scarcely  exchanging  a  word.  "Just  so,  my  dear," 
she  would  say,  in  return  to  any,  observation  made  to 
her  by  Mrs!  Cheyne.  "Just-so  Mewlstone,"  a 
young  wag  once  named  her. 

People  stared  incredulously  when  Mrs.  Cheyne 
assured  them  her  companion  was  a  very  superior 
woman.  They  thought  it  was  only  her  satire,  and 
did  not  believe  her  in  the  least  They  would  have 
stared  still  more  if  they  had  really  known  the  ex- 
tent of  Miss  Mewlstone's  acquirements. 


172  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

-./  "She  seems  so  stupid,    as    though  she  can  not 
talk,"  one  of  Mrs.  Cheyne's  friends  said. 

44 Oh,  yes,  she  can  talk,  and  very  well,  too,"  re- 
turned that  lady  quietly;  "but  she  knows  that  I  do 
not  care  about  it;  her  silence  is  her  great  virtue  in 
my  eyes.  And  then  she  has  tact,  and  knows  when 
to  keep  out  of  the  way/*  finished  Mrs.  Cheyne,  with 
utmost  frankness;  and,  indeed,  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  any  other  person  would  have  retained  her 
position  so  long  at  the  White  House. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  was  no  favorite  with  the  young  pas- 
tor, nevertheless,  she  was  an  exceedingly  handsome 
woman.  Before  the  bloom  of  her  youth  had  worn 
off  she  had  been  considered  absolutely  beautiful. 
As  regarded  the  form  of  her  features,  there  was  no 
fault  to  be  found,  but  her  expression  was  hardly 
pleasing.  There  was  a  hardness  that  people  found 
a  little  repelling — a  bitter,  dissatisfied  droop  of  the 
lip,  a  weariness  of  gloom  in  the  dark  eyes,  and  a 
tendency  to  satire  in  her  speech,  that  alienated 
people's  sympathy. 

44 1  am  unhappy,  but  pity  me  if  you  dare!" 
seemed  to  be  written  legibly  upon  her  countenance; 
and  those  who  knew  her  best  held  their  peace  in 
her  presence,  and  then  went  away  and  spoke  softly 
to  each  other  of  the  life  that  seemed  wasted  and  the 
heart  that  was  so  hardened  with  its  trouble. 
44  What  would  the  world  be  if  every  one  were  to 
bear  their  sorrows  so  badly?"  they  would  say. 
44There  is  something  heathenish  in  such  utter  want 
of  resignation.  Oh,  yes,  it  was  very  sad,  her  losing 
her  husband  and  children,  but  it  all  happened  four 
or  five  years  ago;'  and  you  know — "  and  here 
people's  voices  dropped  a  little  ominously,  for  there 
were  vague  hints  afloat  that  things  had  not  always 
gone  on  smoothly  at  the  White  House,  even  when 
Mrs.  Cheyne  had  her  husband.  She  had  been  an 
only  child,  and  had  married  the  only  survivor  of  a 
large  family.  Both  were  handsome,  self-willed 
young  people;  neither  had  been  used  to  contradic- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  17S" 

tion.  In  spite  of  their  love  for  each  other,  there 
had  been  strife  of  wills  and  misunderstandings  from 
the  earliest  days  of  their  marriage.  Neither  knew 
what  giving  up  meant,  and  before  many  months 
were  over  the  White  House  witnessed  many  pain- 
ful scenes.  Herbert  Cheyne  was  passionate,  and  at 
times  almost  violent;  but  there  was  no  malice  in 
his  nature.  He  stormed  furiously  and  forgave 
easily.  A  little  forbearance  would  have  turned  him 
into  a  sweet-natured  man ;  but  his  wife's  haughti- 
ness and  resentment  lasted  long;  she  never  ac- 
knowledged herself  in  the  wrong,  never  made  over- 
tures of  peace,  but  bore  herself  on  every  occasion  as 
a  sorely  injured  wife,  a  state  of  things  singularly 
provoking  to  a  man  of  Herbert  Cheyne 's  irritable 
temperament. 

There  was  injudicious  partisanship  as  regarded 
their  children:  while  Mrs.  Cheyne  idolized  her  boy, 
her  husband  lavished  most  of  his  attention  on  the 
baby  girl— r44  papa's  girl,"  as  she  always  called  her- 
self in  opposition  to  "mother's  boy." 

Mrs.  Cheyne  really  believed  she  loved  her  boy 
best,  but  when  diphtheria  carried  off  her  little  Janie 
also,  she  was  utterly  inconsolable.  Her  husband 
was  far  away  when  it  happened ;  he  had  been  a 
great  traveler  before  his  marriage,  and  latterly  his 
matrimonial  relations  with  his  wife  had  been  so  un- 
satisfactory that  virtual  separation  had  ensued. 
Two  or  three  months  before  illness,  and  then  death, 
had  devastated  the  nursery  at  the  White  House,  he 
had  set  out  for  a  long  exploring  expedition  in  Cen- 
tral Africa. 

"You  make  my  life  so  unbearable  that,  but  for 
the  children,  I  would  never  care  to  set  foot  in  my 
home  again,"  he  had  said  to  her,  in  one  of  his  vio- 
lent moods;  and,  though  he  repented  of  his  speech 
afterward,  she  could  not  be  brought  to  believe  that 
he  had  not  meant  it,  and  her  heart  had  been  hard 
against  him  even  in  their  parting. 

But   before  many  months  were   ov^r  $he  wouW 


174  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

have  given  all  she  possessed — to  her  very  life — to 
have  recalled  him  to  her  side.  She  was  childless, 
and  her  health  broken;  but  no  such  recall  was 
possible.  Vague  rumors  reached  her  of  some  mis- 
erable disaster;  people  talked  of  a  missing  English- 
man. One  of  the  little  party  had  already  succumbed 
to  fever  and  hardship;  by  and  by  another  followed; 
and  the  last  news  that  reached  them  was  that  Her- 
bert Cheyne  lay  at  the  point  of  death  in  the  kraal  of 
a  friendly  tribe.  Since  then  the  silence  had  been 
of  the  grave:  not  one  of  the  party  had  survived  to 
bring  the  news  of  his  last  moments:  there  had  been 
illness  and  disaster  from  the  first. 

When  Mrs.  Cheyne  recovered  from  the  nervous 
disorder  that  had  attacked  her  on  the  receipt  of 
this  news,  she  put  on  widow's  mourning,  and  wore 
it  for  two  years;  then  she  sent  for  Miss  Mewlstone, 
and  set  herself  to  go  through  with  the  burden  of 
her  life.  If  she  found  it  heavy,  she  never  com- 
plained: she  was  silent  on  her  own  as  on  other  peo- 
ple's troubles.  Only  at  the  sight  of  a  child  of  two 
or  three  years  of  age  she  would  turn  pale,  and 
drawdown  her  veil;  and  if  it  ran  up  to  her,  as 
would  sometimes  happen,  she  would  put  it  away 
from  her  angrily,  pushing  it  away  almost  with 
violence,  and  no  child  was  ever  suffered  to  cross  her 
threshold. 

The  drawing-room  at  the  White  House  was  a 
spacious  apartment,  with  four  long  windows  open- 
ing on  the  lawn.  Mrs.  Cheyne  was  sitting  in  her 
low  chair,  reading,  with  Miss  Mewlstone  at  the 
further  end  of  the  room,  with  her  knitting- basket 
beside  her;  two  or  three  greyhounds  were  grouped 
near  her.  They  all  rushed  forward  with  furious 
barks  as  Mr.  Drummond  was  announced,  and  then 
leaped  joyously  round  him.  Mrs.  Cheyne  put 
down  her  book,and  greeted  him  with  a  frosty  smile. 

She  had  laid  aside  her  widow's  weeds,  but  still 
dressed  in  black,  the  somberness  of  her  apparel 
perfectly  with  her  pale,  creamy  coiu~ 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  17S 

plexion.  Her  dress  was  always  rich  in  material, 
and  most  carefully  adjusted.  In  her  younger  days 
it  had  been  an  art  with  her — almost  a  passion — and 
it  had  grown  into  a  matter  of  custom. 

4 'You  are  very  good  to  come  again  so  soon,  Mr. 
Drummond, "  she  said,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand. 
The  words  were  civil,  but  a  slight  inflection  on  the 
word  "soon"  made  Mr.  Drummond  feel  a  little 
uncomfortable.  Did  she  think  he  called  too  often? 
He  wished  he  had  brought  Mattie;  only  last  time 
she  had  been  so  satirical,  and  had  quizzed  the  poor 
little  thing  unmercifully;  not  that  Mattie  had  found 
out  that  she  was  being  quizzed. 

"I  hardly  thought  I  should  find  you  at  home,  it 
is  so  fine  an  afternoon;  but  I  made  the  attempt, 
you  see,'  he  continued,  a  little  awkwardly. 

"Your  parochial  conscience  was  uneasy,  I  sup- 
pose, because  I  was  missing  at  church?"  she  re- 
turned, somewhat  slyly.  "You  would  make  a 
capital  overseer,  Mr.  Drummond" — with  a  short 
laugh.  "A  headache  is  a  good  excuse,  is  it  not? 
I  had  a  headache,  had  I  not,  Miss  Mewlstone?" 

"Yes,  my  dear,  just  so,"  returned  Miss  Mewl- 
stone. She  always  called  her  patroness  "my 
dear." 

"Miss  Mewlstone  gave  me  the  heads  of  the  ser- 
mon, so  it  was  not  quite  labor  lost,  as  regards  one 
of  your  flock.  I  am  afraid  you  think  me  a  black 
sheep  because  I  stay  away  so  often — a  very  black 
sheep,  eh,  Mr  Drummond?" 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  judge,"  he  said,  still  more 
awkwardly.  "Headaches  are  very  fair  excuses; 
and  if  one  be  not  blessed  with  good  health — " 

"My  health  is  perfect,"  she  returned,  interrupt- 
ing him  ruthlessly.  "I  have  no  such  convenient 
plea  under  which  to  shelter  myself.  Miss  Mewl- 
stone suffers  far  more  from  headaches  than  I  do 
Don't  you,  Miss;  Mewlstone?" 

Just  so;  yes,  indeed,  my  dear,"  proceeded  sottly 

tbs  otber  end  of  tte 


176  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

44 1  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  commenced  Mr.  Drum- 
mond,  in  a  sympathizing  tone  of  voice.  But  his 
tormenter  again  interrupted  him. 

"I  am  a  sad  backslider,  ami  not?  I  wonder  if 
you  have  a  sermon  ready  for  me?  Do  you  lecture 
your  parishioners,  Mr.  Drummond,  rich  as  well  as 
poor?  What  a  pity  it  is  you  are  so  young!  Lec- 
tures are  more  suitable  with  gray  hair;  a  hoary 
head  might  have  some  chance  against  my  satire. 
A  woman's  tongue  is  a  difficult  thing  to  keep  in 
order,  is  it  not?  1  dare  say  you  find  that  with  Miss 
Mattie?" 

Mr.  Drummond  was  literally  on  thorns.  He  had 
no  repartee  ready.  She  was  secretly  exasperating 
him  as  usual,  making  his  youth  a  reproach,  and 
rendering  it  impossible  for  him  to  be  his  natural, 
frank  self  with  her.  In  her  presence  he  was  always 
at  a  disadvantage.  She  seemed  to  take  stock  of  his 
learning  and  to  mock  at  the  idea  of  his  pastoral 
claims.  It  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  called 
herself  a  black  sheep,  or  had  spoken  of  her  scanty 
attendance  at  church.  But  as  yet  he  had  not  dared 
to  rebuke  her:  he  had  a  feeling  that  she  might  fling 
back  his  rebuke  with  a  jest,  and  his  dignity  forbade 
this.  Some  day  he  owed  it  to  his  conscience  to 
speak  a.  word  to  her — to  tell  her  ot  the  evil  effects 
of  such  an  example;  but  the  convenient  season  had 
not  yet  arrived. 

He  was  casting  about  in  his  own  mind  for  some 
weighty  sentence  in  which  to  answer  her;  but  she 
again  broke  in  upon  his  silence: 

44  It  seems  that  I  am  to  escape  to-day.  I  hope 
you  are  not  a  lax  disciplinarian;  that  comes  of 
being  young.  Youth  is  more  tolerant,  they  say,  of 
other  people's  errors:  it  has  its  own  glass  houses  to 
mind." 

44 You  are  too  clever  for  me,  Mrs.  Cheyne,"  ;re- 
turned  the  young  man,  with  a  deprecating  smile 
that  might  have  disarmed  her.  44No,  I  have  not 
come  to  lecture :  my  mission  is  perfectly  peaceful, 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  177 

as  befits  this  lovely  afternoon.  I  wonder  what  you 
ladies  find  to  do  all  day?"  he  continued,  abruptly 
changing  the  subject,  and  trying  to  find  something 
that  would  not  attract  her  satire. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  seemed  a  little  taken  aback  by  this 
direct  question ;  and  then  she  drew  up  her  beauti- 
ful head  a  little  haughtily,  and  laughed. 

"Ah,  you  are  cunning,  Mr.  Drummond.  You 
found  me  disposed  to  take  the  offensive  in  the  mat- 
ter of  church-going,  and  now  you  are  on  another 
tack.  There  is  a  lecture  somewhere  in  the  back- 
ground. 'How  doth  the  little  busy  bee,'  etc.  Now, 
don't  frown" — as  Mr.  Drummond  knitted  his  brows 
and  really  looked  annoyed.  "I  will  not  refuse  to 
be  catechised. " 

"I  should  not  presume  to  catechise  you,"  he 
returned,  hastily.  "I  appeal  to  Miss  Mewlstone  if 
my  question  were  not  a  very  innocent  one." 

"Just  so;  just  so,"  replied  Miss  Mewlstone;  but 
she  looked  a  little  alarmed  at  this  appeal.  "Oh, 
very  innocent;  oh,  very  so." 

"With  two  against  me  I  must  yield,"  returned 
Mrs.  Cheyne,  with  a  curl  of  her  lip.  "What  do  we 
do  with  our  time,  Miss  Mewlstone?  Your  occupa- 
tion speaks  for  itself:  it  is  exquisitely  feminine. 
Don't  tell  Miss  Mattie,  Mr.  Drummond,  but  I  never 
work.  I  would  as  soon  arm  myself  with  a  dagger 
as  a  needle  or  a  pair  of  scissors.  When  I  am  not 
in  the  air  I  paimt.  I  only  lay  aside  my  palette  for  a 
book." 

"You  paint!"  exclaimed  Archie,  with  sudden  in- 
terest. It  was  the  first  piece  of  information  he  had 
yet  gleaned. 

"Yes,"  she  returned,  indifferently:  "one  must  do 
something  to  kill  time,  and  music  was  never  my 
forte.  I  sketch  and  draw  and  paint  after  my  own 
sweet  will.  There  are  portfolios  full  of  my  sketches 
in  there"— with  a  movement  of  her  hand  toward 
a  curtained  recess.  "No,  I  know  what  you  are 

12  Other  Girts 


178  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

going  to  say;  you  will  ask  to  see  them;  but  I  never 
show  them  to  anyone." 

"For  what  purpose,  then,  do  you  paint  them?" 
were  the  words  on  his  lips;  but  he  forbore  to  utter 
them.  But  she  read  the  question  in  his  eyes. 

"Did  I  not  say  one  must  kill  time?"  she  returned, 
rather  irritably.  "The  occupation  is  soothing: 
surely  that  is  reason  enough." 

44 It  is  a  good  enough  reason,  I  suppose,"  he 
replied,  reluctantly,  for  surely  he  must  say  a  word 
here;  "but  one  need  not  talk  about  killing  time, 
with  so  much  that  one  could  do." 

Then  there  came  a  gleam  of  suppressed  mischief 
in  her  eyes: 

41  Yes,  I  know:  you  may  spare  me  that.  I  will 
listen  to  it  all  next  Sunday,  if  you  will,  when  you 
have  it  your  own  way,  and  one  can  not  sin  against 
decorum  and  answer  you  Yes,  yes,  there  is  so 
much  to  do,  is  there  not? — hungry  people  to  be  fed, 
and  sick  to  visit — all  sorts  of  disagreeables  that 
people  call  duties.  Ah,  I  am  a  sad  sinner!  I  only 
*draw  for  my  own  amusement,  and  leave  the  poor 
old  world  to  get  on  without  me.  What  a  burden  I 
must  be  on  your  conscience,  Mr.  Drummond — 
heavier  than  all  the  rest  of  your  parish!  What,  are 
you  going  already?  and  Miss  Mewlstone  has  never 
given  you  any  tea?" 

Then  Archie  explained,  very  shortly,  that  he  had 
partaken  of  that  beverage  at  Brooklyn,  and  his 
leave-taking  was  rather  more  formal  than  usual. 
He  was  very  much  surprised,  as  he  stood  at  the  hall 
door,  that  always  stood  open  in  summer,  to  hear 
the  low  sweep  of  a  dress  over  the  tessellated  pave- 
ment behind  him,  and  to  see  a  white,  pudgy  hand 
laid  on  his  coat-sleeve. 

"My  dear  Miss  Mewlstone,  how  you  startled 
me!" 

"Just  so;  yes,  I  am  afraid  I  did,  Mr.  Drummond; 
but  I  just  wanted  to  say,  never  mind  all  that  non* 
agaiu;  she  likes  to  see  you;  she  does, 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  179 

indeed.  It  is  only  her  way  to  talk  so;  she  means 
no  harm,  poor  dear — oh,  none  at  all!" 

4< Excuse  me,"  returned  Archie,  in  a  hurt  voice, 
"but  I  think  you  are  mistaken.  Mrs.  Cheyne  does 
not  care  for  my  visits,  and  shows  me  she  does  not. 
If  it  were  not  my  duty,  I  should  not  come  so 
often." 

44 No,  no;  just  so;  but  all  the  same  it  rouses  her 
and  does  her  good.  It  is  a  bad  day  with  her,  poor 
dear — the  very  day  the  darlings  were  taken  ill,  four 
years  ago.  Now,  don't  go  away  and  fancy  things; 
don't,  there's  a  dear  young  man.  Come  as  often  as 
you  can,  and  try  and  do  her  good." 

44Oh,  if  I  only  knew  how  that  is  to  be  done!" 
returned  Archie,  slowly;  but  he  was  mollified  in 
spite  of  himself  There  were  tears  in  Miss  Mewl- 
stone's  little  blue  eyes;  perhaps  she  was  a  good 
creature,  after  all. 

4kl  will  come  again,  but  not  just  yet,"  he  said, 
nodding  to  her  good-humoredly ;  but  as  he  walked 
down  the  road  he  told  himself  that  Mrs.  Cheyne 
had  never  before  made  herself  so  disagreeable,  and 
that  it  would  be  long  before  he  set  foot  in  the  White 
House  again. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

**A    FRIEND    IN    NEED." 

Human  nature  is  weak,  and  we  are  told  there 
are  mixed  motives  to  be  found  in  the  holiest  actions. 
Mr.  Drummond  never  could  be  brought  to  acknowl- 
edge, even  to  himself,  the  reason  why  he  took  so 
much  pains  to  compose  his  sermon  for  that  Sunday. 
Withouc  possessing  any  special  claim  to  eloquence, 
he  had  always  been  earnest  and  painstaking,  be- 
stowing much  labor  on  the  construction  and  finish 
of  his  sentences,  which  were  in  consequence  more 
elaborate  tbaa  original,  At  times,  wbeo  b§  took 


180  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

less  pains  and  was  simpler  in  style,  he  seldom 
failed  to  satisfy  his  hearers.  His  voice  was  pleasant 
and  well  modulated,  and  his  delivery  remarkably 
quiet  and  free  from  any  tricks  of  gestures. 

But  on  this  occasion  his  subject  baffled  him;  he 
wrote  and  rewrote  whole  pages,  and  then  grew 
discontented  with  his  work.  On  the  Sunday  in 
question  he  woke  with  the  conviction  that  some- 
thing out  of  the  common  order  of  events  distin- 
guished the  dav  from  other  days;  but  even  as  this 
thought  crossed  his  mind  he  felt  ashamed  of  him- 
self, and  was  in  consequence  a  little  more  dictatorial 
than  usual  at  the  breakfast-table. 

The  inhabitants  of  Hadleigh  were  well  accustomed 
to  the  presence  of  strangers  in  their  church.  In  the 
season  there  was  a  regular  influx  of  visitors  that 
rilled  the  lodging-houses  to  overflowing.  Hadleigh 
had  always  prided  itself  on  its  gentility.  As  a 
watering  place  it  was  select  and  exclusive:  only  the 
upper  middle  classes,  and  a  sprinkling  of  the  aris- 
tocracy, were  the  habitual  frequenters  of  the  little 
town.  It  was  too  quiet;  it  offered  too  few  attrac- 
tions to  draw  the  crowds  that  flocked  to  other  places. 
Mr.  Drummond's  congregation  was  well  used  by 
this  time  to  see  new  faces  in  the  stranger*  pews; 
nevertheless,  a  little  thrill  of  something  like  sur- 
prise and  excitement  moved  a  few  of  the  younger 
members  as  Nan  and  her  sisters  walked  down  the 
aisle,  with  their  mother  following  them. 

"The  mother  is  almost  as  good-looking  as  her 
daughters,"  thought  Colonel  Middleton.  as  he 
regarded  the  group  through  his  gold-mounted  eye- 
glasses; and  Miss  Middleton  looked  up  for  an  in- 
stant from  her  prayer-book.  Even  Mrs.  Cheyne 
roused  from  the  gloomy  abstraction  which  was  her 
usual  approach  to  devotion,  and  looked  long  and 
curiously  at  the  three  girlish  faces  before  her.  It 
was  refreshing  even  to  her  to  see  anything  so  fresh 
and  bright  looking. 

Nan   and   her  sisters  were  perfectly  oblivious  'of 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  181 

the  sensation  they  were  making.  Nan's  pretty  face 
was  a  trifle  clouded.  The  strange  surroundings,  the 
sight  of  all  those  people  unknown  to  them,  instead 
of  the  dear,  familiar  faces  that  had  always  been 
before  her.  gave  the  girl  a  dreary  feeling  of  oppres- 
sion and  dismay.  Her  voice  quavered  audibly  as  she 
sang,  and  one  or  two  drops  fell  on  her  prayer-book 
as  she  essayed  to  join  in  the  petitions. 

"Why  is  there  not  a  special  clause  in  the  Litany 
for  those  who  are  perplexed  and  in  poverty?  It  is 
not  only  from  murder  and  sudden  death  one  need 
pray  to  be  delivered/'  thought  Nan,  with  much 
sinking  of  .heart.  Oh,  how  helpless  they  were — so 
young,  and  only  girls,  with  a  great  unknown  world 
before  them,  and  Dick  away,  ignorant  of  their 
troubles,  and  too  youthful  a  knight  to  win  his  spurs 
and  pledge  himself  to  their  service! 

Nan's  sweet,  downcast  face  drew  many  eyes  in 
the  direction  of  the  great  square  pew  in  which  they 
sat.  Philhs  intercepted  some  of  these  looks,  as 
her  attention  insensibly  wandered  during  the  ser- 
vice. It  was  wrong,  terribly  wrong,  of  course,  but 
her  thoughts  would  not  concentrate  themselves  on 
the  lesson  the  young  vicar  was  reading  in  his  best 
style.  She  was  not  heavy-hearted,  like  Nan;  on 
the  contrary,  little  thrills  of  excitement,  of  impa- 
tience, of  repressed  amusement,  pervaded  her  mind, 
as  she  looked  at  the  strange  faces  round  her.  "They 
would  not  be  long  strange,"  she  thought:  tvsome 
of  them  would  be  neighbors.  What  would  they 
say,  all  these  people,  when  they  knew — "  And 
here  Philhs  held  her  breath  a  moment.  People 
were  wondering  even  now  who  they  were.  They 
had  dressed  themselves  that  morning,  rehearsing 
their  parts,  as  it  were,  with  studied  simplicity.  The 
gown  Nan  wore  was  as  inexpensive  as  a  gown  could 
be;  her  hat  was  a  model  of  neatness  and  propriety; 
nevertheless,  Phillis  groaned  in  spirit  as  she  glanced 
at  her.  Where  had  she  got  that  style?  She  looked 
like  a  young  princess  who  was  playing  at  Arcadia, 


182  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Would  people  ever  dare  to  ask  her  to  work  for 
them?  Would  they  not  beg  her  pardon,  and  cry 
shame  on  themselves  for  entertaining  such  a 
thought  for  a  moment?  Fhillis  almost  envied  Nan, 
who  was  shedding  salt  tears  on  her  prayer-book. 
She  thought  she  was  absorbed  in  her  devotions, 
while  her  own  thoughts  would  wander  so  sadly;  and 
then  a  handsome  face  in  the  opposite  pew  attracted 
her  attention.  Surely  that  must  be  Mrs.  Cheyne, 
who  lived  in  the  White  House  near  them,  of  whom 
Nan  had  talked — the  poor  woman  who  had  lost 
husband  and  children  and  who  lived  in  solitary 
state.  The  sermon  had  now  commenced,  but 
Phillis  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  sentences  over  which 
Mr.  Drummond  had  expended  so  much  labor:  her 
attention  was  riveted  by  the  gloomy,  beautiful  face 
before  her,  which  alternately  attracted  and  repelled 
her. 

As  though  disturbed  by  some  magnetic  influence, 
Mrs.  Cheyne  raised  her  eyes  slowly  and  looked  at 
Phillis.  Something  in  the  girl's  keen-eyed  glance 
seemed  to  move  her  strangely.  The  color  crept  into 
her  pale  face,  and  her  lip  quivered;  a  moment 
afterward  she  drew  down  her  veil  and  leaned  back 
in  her  seat,  and  Phillis,  somewhat  abashed,  endeav- 
ored fruitlesslv  to  gather  up  the  threads  of  the 
sermon. 

4 'There,  it  is  over!  We  have  made  our  debut," 
she  said,  a  littl^  recklessly,  as  they  walked  back  to 
Beach  House,  where  Mrs.  Challoner  and  Dulce  were 
staying.  And  as  Nan  looked  at  her,  a  little 
shocked  and  mvstified  by  this  unusual  flippancy,  she 
continued  in  the  same  excited  way: 

44  Was  it  not  strange  Mr.  Drummond  choosing  that 
text,  'Consider  the  lilies?'  He  looked  at  us;  I  am 
sure  he  did,  mother.  It  was  quite  a  tirade  against 
dress  and  vanity;  but  I  am  sure  no  one  could  find 
fault  with  us  " 

44 It  was  a  very  good  sermon,  and  I  think  he  seems 
a  very  clever  young  man,"  returned  Mrs.  Chal- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS*  188 

loner,  with  a  sigh,  for  the  service  had  been  a  long 
weariness  for  her.  She  had  not  been  unmindful  of 
the  attention  her  girls  had  caused;  but  if  people 
only  knew —  And  here  the  poor  lady  had  clasped 
her  hands  and  put  up  petitions  that  were  certainly 
not  in  the  litany. 

Phillis  seemed  about  to  say  something,  but  she 
checked  herself,  and  they  were  all  a  little  silent 
until  they  reached  the  house.  This  first  Sunday 
was  an  infliction  to  them  all;  it  was  a  day  of  en- 
forced idleness.  There  was  too  much  time  for 
thought  and  room  for  regret.  In  spite  of  all  Phillis's 
efforts — and  she  rattled  on  cheerily  most  of  the 
afternoon — Mrs.  Challoner  got  one  of  her  bad 
headaches  from  worry,  and  withdrew  to  her  room, 
attended  by  Dulce,  who  volunteered  to  bathe  her 
head  and  read  her  to  sleep. 

The  church  bells  were  just  ringing  for  the  even- 
ing service,  and  Nan  rose,  as  usual,  to  put  on  her 
hat,  but  Phillis  stopped  her: 

"Oh,  Nan,  do  not  let  us  go  to  church  again  this 
evening.  I  am  terribly  wicked  to-day,  1  know,  but 
somehow  I  can  not  keep  my  thoughts  in  order.  So 
what  is  the  use  of  making  the  attempt?  Let  us  take 
out  our  prayer-books  and  sit  on  the  beach:  it  is  low 
tide,  and  a  walk  over  the  sands  would  do  us  good 
after  our  dreadful  week." 

"If  you  are  sure  it  would  not  be  wrong,"  hesi- 
tated Nan,  whose  conscience  was  a  little  hard  to 
convince  in  such  matters. 

44  No,  no.  And  the  run  will  do  Laddie  good.  The 
poor  little  fellow  has  been  shut  up  in  this  room  all 
day.  We  need  not  tell  the  mother.  She  would  be 
shocked,  you  know.  But  we  have  never  stayed 
away  from  church  before,  have  we?  And,  to  tell 
you  the  truth/'  continued  Phillis,  with  an  unsteady 
laugh  that  betrayed  agitation  to  her  sister's  ear, 
"though  I  faced  it  very  well  this  morning,  I  do  not 
feel  inclined  to  go  through  it  again.  People  stared 
so.  And  I  could  not  help  thinking  all  the  time,  4if 


184  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

they  only  knew' — that  was  the  thought  th«L  kept 
buzzing  in  my  head.  If  only  Mr.  Drummond  and 
all  those  people  knew!" 

"What  does  it  matter  what  people  think?"  re- 
turned Nan.  But  she  said  it  languidly.  In  her 
heart  she  was  secretly  dismayed  at  this  sudden 
failure  of  courage.  Phillis  had  been  quite  bold 
and  merry  all  the  day,  almost  reckless  in  her 
speeches. 

*'I  am  glad  we  came.  This  will  do  us  both  good," 
said  Nan,  gently,  as  they  left  the  Parade  behind 
them,  and  went  slowly  over  the  shelving  beach, 
with  Laddie  rolling  like  a  clumsy  black  ball  about 
their  feet.  Just  before  them  there  was  a  pretty, 
black-timbered  cottage,  covered  with  roses,  stand- 
ing quite  low  on  the  shore,  and  beyond  this  was 
nothing  but  shingly  beach,  and  a  stretch  of  wet, 
yellow  sand,  on  which  the  sun  was  shining.  There 
was  a  smooth  white  bowlder  standing  quite  alone, 
on  which  the  girls  seated  themselves.  The  tide  was 
still  going  out,  and  the  low  wash  of  waves  sounded 
pleasantly  in  their  ears  as  they  advanced  and  then 
receded.  A  shimmer  of  silvery  light  played  upon 
the  water,  and  a  rosy  tinge  began  to  tint  the 
horizon. 

"How  quiet  and  still  it  is!"  said  Phillis,  in  an 
awe-struck  voice.  "When  we  are  tired  we  must 
come  here  to  rest  ourselves.  How  prettily  those 
baby  waves  seem  to  babble!  it  is  just  like  the  gurgle 
of  baby  laughter.  And  look  at  Laddie  splashing  in 
that  pool;  he  is  after  that  poor  little  crab.  Come 
here,  you  rogue!"  But  Laddie,  intent  upon  his 
sport,  only  cocked  his  ear  restlessly,  and  refused  to 
obey. 

"Yes,  it  is  lovely,"  returned  Nan.  *  *There  is 
quite  a  silvery  path  over  the  water;  by  and  by  the 
sunset  clouds  will  be  beautiful.  But  what  is  the 
matter,  dear?"  as  Phillis  sighed,  and  leaned  heavily 
against  her;  and  then,  as  she  turned,  she  saw  the 
girl's  eyes  were  wet. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  185 

"Ob,  Nan!  shall  we  have  strength  for  it?  That 
is  what  I  keep  asking  myself  to-day.  No,  you  must 
not  look  so  frightened.  I  am  brave  enough  gener- 
ally, and  I  do  not  mean  to  lose  pluck;  but  now  and 
then  the  thought  will  come  to  me,  Shall  we  have 
strength  to  go  through  with  it?" 

"We  must  think  of  each  other;  that  must  keep  us 
up,"  returned  Nan,  whose  ready  sympathy  fully 
understood  her  sister's  mood.  Only  to  Nan  would 
Phillis  ever  own  her  failure  of  courage  or  fears  for 
the  future.  But  now  and  then  the  brave  young 
heart  needed  comfort,  and  always  found  it  in  Nan's 
sympathy. 

"It  was  looking  at  your  dear,  beautiful  face  that 
made  me  feel  so  suddenly  bad  this  morning,"  inter- 
rupted Phillis,  with  a  sort  of  cob.  "It  was  not  the 
people  so  much;  they  only  amused  and  excited  me, 
and  1  kept  thinking,  *If  they  only  knew!'  But, 
Nan,  when  I  looked  at  you — oh,  why  are  you  so 
nice  and  pretty,  if  you  have  got  to  do  this  horrid 
work?" 

"I  am  not  a  bit  nicer  than  you  and  Dulce," 
laughed  Nan,  embracing  hei,  for  she  never  could  be 
made  to  understand  that  by  most  people  she  was  con- 
sidered their  superior  in  good  looks;  the  bare  idea 
made  her  angry.  "It  is  most  for  you,  Phillis, 
because  you  are  so  clever  and  have  so  many  ideas. 
But  there!  we  must  not  go  on  pitying  each  other, 
or  else,  indeed,  we  shall' undermine  our  little  stock 
of  strength." 

"But  don't  you  feel  terribly  unhappy  some- 
times?" persisted  Phillis.  Neither  of  them  men- 
tioned Dick,  and  yet  he  was  in  both  their  minds. 

"Perhaps  I  do,"  returned  Nan,  simply;  and  then 
she  added,  with  quaintness  that  was  pathetic,  "you 
see,  we  are  so  unused  to  the  feeling,  and  it  is  over- 
hard  at  first;  by  and  by  we  shall  be  more  used  to 
not  having  our  own  way  in  things. " 

**I  think  I  could  give  up  that  readily,  if  I  could 


186  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

be  sure  you  and  Dulce  were  not  miserable,"  sighed 
Phillis. 

"That  is  what  I  say,"  returned  Nan.  "Don't  you 
see  how  simple  and  beautiful  that  is?  Thinking  of 
each  other  gives  us  strength  to  go  through  with  it 
all.  This  evening  trying  to  cheer  you  up  has  done 
me  good.  I  do  not  feel  the  least  afraid  of  people 
to-night.  Looking  at  that  sea  and  sky  makes  one 
feel  the  littleness  and  unreality  of  all  these  worries. 
What  does  it  matter— what  does  anything  matter — 
if  we  only  do  our  duty  and  love  each  other,  and 
submit  to  the  Divine  will?"  finished  Nan,  rever- 
ently, who  seldom  spoke  of  her  deeper  feelings, 
even  to  Phillis. 

"Nan,  you  are  a  saint,"  returned  Phillis,  enthusi- 
astically. The  worried  look  had  left  her  eyes;  they 
looked  clear  and  bright  as  usual.  "Oh,  what  a 
heathen  I  have  been  to-day!  but,  as  Dulce  is  so  fond 
of  saying,  ll  am  going  to  be  good.'  I  will  read  the 
evening  Psalms  to  you,  in  token  of  my  resolution, 
if  you  like.  But  wait;  is  there  not  some  one  com- 
ing across  the  sand?  How  eerie  it  looks,  such  a 
tall,  black  figure  standing  between  the  earth  and 
sky." 

Phillis  had  good  sight,  or  she  would  hardly  have 
distinguished  the  figure,  which  was  now  motionless, 
at  such  a  distance.  In  another  moment  she  even 
announced  that  its  draperies  showed  it  to  be  a 
woman,  before  she  opened  her  book  and  commenced 
reading. 

There  is  something  very  striking  in  a  lonely  cen- 
tral figure  in  a  scene,  the  outline  cuts  so  sharply 
against  the  horizon.  Nan's  eyes  seemed  riveted  on 
it  as  she  listened  to  Phillis'  voice;  it  seemed  to  her 
as  immovable  as  a  sphinx,  its  rigidity  lending  a 
sort  of  barrenness  and  forlornness  to  the  landscape, 
a  black  edition  of  human  nature  set  under  a  violet 
and  opal  sky. 

She  almost  started  when  it  moved,  at  last,  with  a 
steady  bearing,  as  it  seemed,  toward  them;  then 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  IS? 

curiosity  quickened  into  interest,  and  she  touched 
Phillis'  arm  whispering  breathless  y: 

44 The  sphinx  moves!  Look— -is  not  that  Mrs. 
Cheyne,  the  lady  who  lives  at  the  White  House  near 
us,  who  always  looks  so  lonely  and  unhappy." 

"Hush!"  returned  Phillis,  "she  will  hear  you;" 
and  then  Mrs.  Cheyne  approached  with  the  same 
swift,  even  walk.  She  looked  at  them  for  a  moment 
as  she  passed,  with  a  sort  of  well-bred  surprise  in 
her  air,  as  though  she  marveled  to  see  them  there ; 
her  black  dress  touched  Laddie,  and  he  caught  at  it 
with  an  impotent  bark. 

The  sisters  must  have  made  a  pretty  picture,  as 
they  sat  almost  clinging  together  on  the  stone;  one 
of  Nan's  little  white  hands  rested  on  Laddie's 
head,  the  other  lay  on  Phillis'  lap.  Phillis  glanced 
up  from  her  book,  keen-eyed  and  alert  in  a  moment; 
she  turned  her  head  to  look  at  the  stranger  that  had 
excited  her  interest,  and  then  rose  to  her  feet  with  a 
little  cry  of  dismay. 

"Oh,  Nan,  1  am  afraid  she  has  hurt  herself!" 
She  gave  such  a  slip  just  now.  I  wonder  what  has 
happened?  She  is  leaning  against  the  breakwater, 
too.  Shall  we  go  and  ask  her  if  she  feels  ill  or  any- 
thing?" 

"You  may  go,"  was  Nan's  answer.  Nevertheless, 
she  followed  Phillis. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  looked  up  at  them  a  little  sharply  as 
they  came  toward  her.  Her  face  was  gray  and  con- 
tracted with  pain. 

"I  have  slipped  on  a  wet  stone,  and  my  foot  has 
somehow  turned  on  me,"  she  said,  quickly,  as 
Phillis  ran  up  to  her.  "It  was  very  stupid.  I  can- 
not think  how  it  happened;  but  I  have  certainly 
sprained  my  ankle.  It  gives  me  such  pain.  I 
cannot  move." 

"Oh,  dear,  I  am  so  sorry,"  returned  Phillis, 
good-naturedly,  and,  in  the  most  natural  manner, 
she  knelt  on  the  beach  and  took  the  ^njnred  foot  in 
her  hands.  "Yes,  I  can  feel  4t  is  swelling  dread- 


188  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

fully.  We  must  try  and  get  your  boot  off  before 
the  attempt  gets  too  painful."  And  she  commenced 
unfastening  it  with  deft  fingers. 

"How  am  I  to  walk  without  my  boot?"  observed 
Mrs.  Cheyne,  a  little  dryly,  as  she  looked  down  on 
the  girl;  but  here  Nan  interposed  in  her  brisk, 
sensible  way: 

"You  must  not  walk,  you  must  not  think  of  such 
a  thing.  We  will  wet  our  handkerchiefs  in  the  salt 
water,  and  bind  up  your  ankle  as  well  as  we  can, 
and  then  one  of  us  will  walk  over  to  the  White 
House  for  assistance.  Your  servants  could  easily 
obtain  a  wheeled  chair." 

"You  knew  I  lived  at  the  White  House,  then?" 
returned  Mrs.  Cheyne,  arching  her  eyebrows  in 
some  surprise;  but  she  offered  no  opposition  to 
Nan's  plan.  The  removal  of  the  boot  had  brought 
on  a  sensation  of  faintness,  and  she  sat  perfectly 
still  and  quiet  while  the  girls  swathed  the  foot  in 
wet  bandages. 

"It  is  a  little  easier  now,"  she  observed,  grate- 
fully. "How  neatly  you  have  done  it!  you  must  be 
used  to  such  work.  I  am  really  very  much  obliged 
to  you  both  for  your  kindly  help;  and  now  I  am 
afraid  I  must  trouble  you  further  if  I  am  ever  to 
reach  home." 

"I  will  go  at  once, "  returned  Nan,  cheerfully; 
"but  I  will  leave  my  sister,  for  fear  you  should  feel 
faint  again;  besides,  it  is  so  lonely." 

"Oh,  I  am  used  to  loneliness!"  was  the  reply,  as 
a  bitter  expression  crossed  her  face. 

Phillis,  who  was  still  holding  the  sprained  foot  in 
her  lap,  looked  up  in  her  eager  way. 

"I  think  one  gets  used  to  everything;  that  is  a 
merciful  dispensation ;  but,  all  the  same,  I  hope  you 
will  not  send  me  away.  I  dearly  like  to  be  useful; 
and  at  present  my  object  is  to  prevent  your  foot 
coming  in  contact  with  these  stones.  Are  you 
really  in  less  pain  now?  You  look  dreadfully 
oale," 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  189 

**Oh,  that  is  nothing!"  she  returned,  with  a  smile 
so  sudden  and  sweet  that  it  quite  startled  Phillis, 
for  it  lighted  up  her  face  like  sunshine;  but  almost 
before  she  caught  it,  it  was  gone.  "How  good  you 
are  to  me,  and  yet  I  am  a  perfect  stranger;"  and 
then  she  added,  as  though  with  an  afterthought, 
"but  I  saw  you  in  church  this  morning." 

Phillis  nodded;  the  question  certainly  required  no 
answer.  . 

"If  I  knew  you  better,  I  should  ask  why  your 
eyes  questioned  me  so  closely  this  morning.  Do 
you  know,  Miss — Miss — "  And  here  she  hesitated 
and  smiled,  waiting  for  Phillis  to  fill  up  the  blank. 

"My  name  is  Challoner — Phillis  Challoner," 
replied  Phillis,  coloring  a  little;  and  then  she 
added,  frankly,  "I  am  afraid  you  thought  me  rude, 
and  that  I  stared  at  you,  but  my  thoughts  were  all 
topsy-turvy  this  morning,  and  refused  to  be  kept  in 
order.  One  feels  curious,  somehow,  about  the 
people  among  whom  one  has  come  to  live." 

"Have  you  come  to  live  here?"  asked  Mrs. 
Cheyne,  eagerly,  and  a  gleam  of  pleasure  shot  into 
her  dark  eyes — "you,  and  your  mother  and  sisters?" 

"Yes;  we  have  just  come  to  the  Friary — a  little 
cottage  standing  on  tne  Braidwood  Road." 

Her  manner  became  a  little  constrained  and 
reserved  as  she  said  this;  the  charming  frankness 
disappeared. 

"The  Friary!"  echoed  Mrs.  Cheyne,  and  then  she 
paused  for  a  moment,  and  her  eyes  rested  search- 
ingly  on  Phillis.  "That  shabby  little  cottage!"  was 
the  thought  that  filled  up  the  outline  of  her  words, 
but,  though  she  felt  inward  surprise  and  a  momen- 
tary disappointment,  there  was  no  change  in  the 
graciousness  of  her  manner.  Never  before  had  she 
so  thawed  to  any  one:  but  the  girl's  sweet  ministry 
had  won  her  heart.  "Then  you  will  be  near  me — 
just  at  my  gates?  We  shall  be  close  neighbors.  I 
hope  you  will  come  and  see  me,  Miss  Challoner." 
Poor  Phillis!  the  blood  suddenly  rushed  over  her 


190  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

face  at  this.  How  was  she  to  answer  without 
appearing  ungracious?  and  yet  at  this  moment  how 
could  she  explain:  "If  you  please,  we  are  dress- 
makers?" Oh,  no!  such  words  as  these  would  not 
get  themselves  said.  It  was  too  abrupt,  too  sud- 
den, altogether;  she  was  not  prepared  for  such  a 
thing.  Oh,  why  had  she  not  gone  to  the  White 
House  instead  of  Nan?  Her  officiousness  had 
brought  this  on  her.  She  could  not  put  the  poor 
foot  off  her  lap,  and  get  up  and  walk  away  to  cool 
her  hot  cheeks. 

<4Thankyou,  you  are  very  good."  she  stammered, 
feeling  herself  an  utter  fool ;  she — Phillis — the  clever 
one! 

Mrs.  Cheyne  seemed  rather  taken  aback  by  the 
girl's  sudden  reserve  and  embarrassment. 

"1  suppose  you  think  I  should  call  first,  and 
thank  you  for  your  kindness,"  she  returned, 
quickly;  "but  I  was  afraid  my  foot  would  keep  me 
too  long  a  prisoner.  And,  as  we  are  to  be  neigh- 
bors, I  hardly  thought  it  necessary  to  stand  on  cere- 
mony; but  if  you  would  rather  wait — " 

"Oh,  no,"  replied  Phillis,  in  despair;  "we  will 
not  trouble  you  to  do  that!  Nan  and  I  will  call  and 
ask  after  your  foot,  and  then  we  will  explain. 
There  is  a  little  difficulty;  you  might  not  care  to 
be  friends  with  us  if  you  knew,"  went  on  Phillis, 
with  burning  cheeks;  "but  we  will  call  and  explain. 
Oh,  yes,  Nan  and  I  will  call." 

"Do:  I  shall  expect  you,"  returned  Mrs.  Cheyne, 
half  amused  and  half  mystified  at  the  girl's  obvious 
confusion.  What  did  the  child  mean?  They  were 
gentlepeople — one  could  see  that  at  a  glance.  They 
were  in  reduced  circumstances;  they  had  come  down 
to  Hadleigh  to  retrench.  Well,  what  did  that  mat- 
ter? People's  wealth  or  poverty  never  affected  her; 
she  would  think  none  the  less  well  of  them  for  that; 
she  would  call  at  the  Friary  and  entertain  them  at 
the  White  House  with  as  much  pleasure  as  though 
they  lived  in  a  palace.  The  little  mystery  piqued 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  191 

her,  and  yet  excited  her  interest.  It  was  long  since 
she  had  interested  herself  so  much  in  anything.  To 
Miss  Middleton  she  had  always  been  cold  and 
uncertain.  Mr.  Drummond  she  treated  with  a 
mixture  of  satire  and  haughtiness  that  aroused  her 
for  a  moment  to  her  earlier  and  better  self.  She 
conceived  an  instantaneous  liking  for  the  girl  who 
looked  at  her  with  such  grave,  kindly  glances.  "I 
shall  expect  >ou,  remember,"  she  repeated,  as  Nan 
at  that  moment  appeared  in  sight. 

"Oh,  yes,  Nan  and  I  will  come, "  returned  Phillis, 
slowly,  and  almost  solemnly;  but  an  instant  after- 
ward a  flicker  of  amusement  played  round  her 
mouth.  It  was  painful,  of  course;  but,  still,  how 
droll  it  was! 

"How  long  you  have  been,  Nan!"  she  exclaimed, 
a  little  unreasonably,  as  Nan  ran  toward  them, 
flushed  and  breathless  from  her  haste. 

"It  has  not  been  long  to  me,"  observed  Mrs. 
Cheyne,  pointedly.  She  talked  more  to  Nan  than 
to  Phillis  after  this,  until  the  servants  appeared 
with  the  wheeled  chair;  but  nevertheless  her  last 
words  were  for  Phillis.  "Remember  your  promise," 
was  all  she  said,  as  she  held  out  her  hand  to  the 
girl;  and  Phillis  tried  to  smile  in  answer,  though  it 
was  rather  a  failure,  after  all. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

DOROTHY    BRINGS   IN    THE    BEST    CHINA. 

"What  a  fool  I  made  of  myself  yesterday!  but  to- 
day Richard  is  himself  again!"  said  Phillis,  as  she 
gathered  up  another  muslin  curtain  in  her  arms 
ready  to  hand  to  Nan,  who  was  mounted  on  some 
steps.  It  was  only  Monday  afternoon,  but  the  girls 
had  done  wonders;  the  work-room,  as  they  called  it, 
was  nearly  finished.  The  great  carved  wardrobe  and 
mahogany  table  had  been  polished  by  Dorothy's 


192  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

strong  hands.  Mrs  Challoner's  easy-chair  and  little 
work-table  at  one  window  looked  quite  inviting; 
the  sewing-machine  and  Nan's  rosewood  davenport 
were  in  their  places.  A  hanging  cupboard  of  old 
china,  and  a  few  well-bound  books,  gave  a  little 
coloring  and  finish,  and  one  or  two  fine  old  prints 
that  had  hung  in  the  dining-room  at  Glen  Cottage 
had  been  disposed  with  advantage  on  the  newly 
papered  walls.  An  inlaid  clock  ticked  on  the  man- 
telpiece, and  some  handsome  ruby-colored  vases 
stood  on  either  side  ot  it.  Nan  was  quite  right  when 
she  had  glanced  round  her  a  few  minutes  ago  in  a 
satisfied  manner  and  said  no  one  need  be  ashamed 
of  living  in  such  a  room. 

4 'Our  pretty  things  make  it  look  almost  too  nice 
for  the  purpose,"  she  continued,  handling  a  pre- 
cious relic,  a  Sevres  cup  and  saucer,  that  had  been 
her  especial  pride  in  old  days.  44I  think  you  were 
wrong,  Phil,  not  to  have  the  china  in  the  other 
room." 

44 No,  indeed;  I  want  people  to  see  it  and  be 
struck  with  our  taste,"  was  Phillis'  frank  answer. 
44 Think  what  pleasure  it  will  give  the  poor  ladies 
when  their  dresses  are  being  tried  on.  Don't  you 
remember  the  basket  of  wax  fruit  at  Miss  Slinder's, 
when  we  were  small  children?  I  thought  it  the 
loveliest  work  of  art,  and  feasted  my  eyes  all  the 
time  Miss  Blinders  was  fitting  my  pink  frock. 
Now,  our  pictures  and  china  will  refresh  people's 
eyes  in  the  same  way. 

Nan  smiled  and  shook  her  head  as  she  dusted  and 
arranged  her  treasures.  The  china  was  very  dear  to 
her — far  more  than  the  books  Phillis  was  arranging 
on  her  chiffonier.  The  Dresden  figures  that  Dick 
had  given  to  her  mother  were  among  them.  She 
did  not  care  for  strangers  to  look  at  them  and  ap- 
preciate their  value.  They  were  home  treasures — 
sacred  relics  of  their  past.  The  last  time  she  had 
dusted  them,  a  certain  young  man  of  her  acquaint- 
ance had  walked  through  the  open  window  whist- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  .URLS.  193 

ling  "  Blue  Bonnets  over  the  Border,  "ana  hctd  taken 
up  his  station  beside  her,  hindering  her  work  with 
his  chattering.  Dulce  was  in  the  upper  regions, 
unpacking  a  box  in  her  mother's  room.  Mrs.  ^hal- 
loner  was  coming  home  the  next  day,  and  Dorothy 
and  she  were  hard  at  word  getting  things  in 
order. 

When  Phillis  made  her  downright  speech,  Nan 
looked  down  from  her  lofty  perch,  and  held  out  her 
arms  for  the  curtain. 

44 Richard  is  always  himself,  my  dear,"  she  said, 
softly.  "Do  you  know  when  you  are  down,  Phil,  I 
feel  as  though  we  are  all  at  a  standstill,  and  there's 
no  getting  on  at  all;  and  then  at  one  of  your  dear, 
droll  speeches  the  sunshine  comes  out  again,  and 
we  are  all  as  right  as  possible." 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,"  was  Phillis1  blunt  answer, 
but  she  could  not  help  being  pleased  at  the  compli- 
ment. She  looked  up  archly  at  Nan,  as  the  mass 
of  soft  white  d"apery  lay  between  them,  and  then 
they  both  brok  3  into  a  laugh,  just  as  two  shadows 
seemed  to  glid-5  past  the  window,  and  a  moment 
afterward  the  house-bell  sounded.  "Visitors — oh, 
Nan!"  And  Phillis  glanced  down  at  the  neat  bib- 
apron  that  she  wore  over  her  cambric  dress. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Dorothy  will  have  too  much 
sense  to  adm  t  them,"  returned  Nan,  quite 
indifferently,  as  she  went  up  a  step  higher  to  hang 
up  the  curtain. 

Phillis  was  still  holding  it;  but  her  manner  was 
not  quite  so  well  assured.  She  thought  she  heard 
Dulce's  voice  m  confabulation  with  the  stranger. 
A  moment  aft*  rward  Dulce  came  briskly  into  the 
room. 

"Nan,  Mr.  Drummond  and  his  sister  have  kindly 
called  to  see  ts.  We  are  not  in  order,  of  course. 
Oh,  dear!"  as  Nan  looked  down  on  them  with 
startled  eyes,  not  venturing  to  descend  from  her 
perch.  "I  ought  not  to  have  brought  them  in 
here,"  looking  half  mischievously  and  half  guiltily 

18  Girls. 


194  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

at  the  young  clergyman,  who  stood  hat  in  hand  on 
the  threshold. 

"It  is  I  who  ought  not  to  have  intruded,"  he 
began,  in  a  perfect  agony  of  embarrassment,  blush- 
ing over  his  face  like  a  girl  as  Nan  looked  down  at 
him  in  much  dignity;  but  Mattie,  who  was  behind 
him,  pushed  forward  in  her  usual  bustling  way. 

44 Oh,  Miss  Challoner,  it  is  too  bad!  I  told  Archie 
that  we  ought  not  come  too  soon — "  but  Phillis 
stopped  her  with  an  outstretched  hand  of  welcome. 

"What  is  too  bad?  I  call  it  very  kind  and 
friendly  of  you  both ;  one  hardly  expected  to  find 
such  good  neighbors.  Nan,  if  that  curtain  is  fin- 
ished I  think  you  had  better  come  down.  Take 
care ;  those  steps  are  rickety.  Perhaps  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  will  help  you." 

"Let  me  do  the  other  ones  for  you.  I  don't 
think  these  steps  are  safe!"  exclaimed  Archie,  with 
sudden  inspiration. 

No  one  would  have  believed  such  a  thing  of  him. 
Mattie's  eyes  grew  quite  round  and  fixed  with 
astonishment  at  the  sight.  He  had  not  even  shaken 
hands  with  Nan,  yet  there  he  was,  mounted  in  her 
place,  slipping  in  the  hooks  with  dexterous  hands, 
while  Nan  quietly  held  up  the  curtain. 

Months  afterward  the  scene  came  back  on  Archi- 
bald Drummond  with  a  curious  thrill  half  of  pain 
and  half  of  amusement.  How  had  he  done  it?  he 
wondered.  What  had  made  him  all  at  once  act  in 
a  way  so  unlike  himself?  For,  with  the  best  inten- 
tion, he  was  always  a  little  stiff  and  constrained 
with  strangers.  Yet  there  he  was  laughing  as 
though  he  had  known  them  all  his  life,  because 
Nan  had  rebuked  him  gravely  for  slipping  two 
hooks  into  one  ring.  Months  afterwards  he  recalled 
it  all;  Nan  glancing  up  at  him  with  quietly  amused 
eyes,  Phillis  standing  apart,  looking  quaint  and 
picturesque  in  her  bib-apron;  Dulce  with  the  after- 
noon sunshine  lighting  up  her  brown  hair;  the  low, 
pld-fashioned  room,  with  the  great  carved  ward- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  195 

robe,  and  the  cupboard  of  dainty  china;  the  shady 
little  lawn  outside,  with  Laddie  rolling  among  the 
daisies.  What  made  it  suddenly  start  up  in  his 
memory  like  a  picture  one  has  seen  and  never  quite 
forgotten? 

Thank  you,  Mr.  Drummond.  You  have  done  it 
so  nicely,"  said  Nan/ with  the  utmost  gravity,  as  he 
lingered,  almost  unwilling  to  descend  to  conven- 
tionality again.  Dulce  and  Phillis  were  busily  en- 
gaged looping  up  the  folds.  "Now  we  will  ask 
Dorothy  to  rerrpve  the  steps,  and  then  we  can  sit 
down  comfortably." 

But  here  Archie  interposed: 

"Why  need  you  call  any  one?  Tell  me  where  I 
shall  put  them."  Mattie  broke  into  a  loud  laugh. 
She  could  not  help  it.  It  was  too  droll  of  Archie, 
She  must  write  and  tell  Grace. 

Archie  heard  the  laugh  as  he  marched  out  of  the 
room  with  his  burden,  and  it  provoked  him  exces- 
sively. He  made  some  excuse  about  admiring  Lad- 
die, and  went  out  on  the  lawn  for  a  few  minutes, 
accompanied  by  Nan.  When  they  came  back  the 
curtains  were  finished,  and  the  two  girls  were  talk- 
ing to  Mattie.  Mattie  seemed  quite  at  ease  with 
them. 

44  We  have  such  a  dear  old  garden  at  the  vicar- 
age," she  was  saying,  as  her  brother  came  into  the 
room.  "I  am  not  much  of  a  gardener  myself,  but 
Archie  works  for  hours  at  a  time.  He  talks  of  get- 
ting a  set  of  tennis  down  from  town.  We  think  it 
will  help  to  bring  people  together.  You  must  pro- 
mise to  come  and  play  sometimes  of  an  afternoon 
when  you  have  got  the  cottage  in  order." 

"Thank  you,"  returned  Phillis;  and  then  Nan 
and  she  exchanged  looks.  A  sort  of  blankness 
came  over  the  sisters'  faces — a  sudden  dying  out  of 
the  brightness  and  fun. 

Mr   Drummond  grew  a  little  alarmed: 

"I  hope  you  will  not  disappoint  my  sister.  She 
has  few  friends,  and  is  rather  lonely,  missing  so 


1S6  NO\   t  IKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

many    sisters;     and    you    are    such    close    neigh- 
bors. ' ' 

"Yes,  we  are  close  neighbors/1  returned  Phillis. 
But  her  voice  was  a  little  less  clear  than  usual;  and, 
to  Archie's  astonishment — for  they  all  seemed  talk- 
ing comfortably  together — her  face  had  grown  sud- 
denly pale.  4iBut  you  must  not  think  us  unkind  if 
we  refuse  your  hospitality,"  she  went  on,  looking 
straight  at  him,  and  not  at  Mattie.  "Owing  tc 
painful  circumstances,  we  have  made  up  our  minds 
that  no  such  pleasures  are  in  store  for  us.  We 
must  learn  to  do  without  things;  must  we  not, 
Nan?" 

44 Yes,  indeed,"  returned  Nan,  very  gravely. 
And  then  the  tears  came  into  Dulce's  eyes.  Was 
Phillis  actually  going  to  tell  them!  She  would 
have  run  away,  only  she  was  ashamed  of  such  cow- 
ardice, 

"I  hope  you  do  not  mean  to  do  without  friends," 
stammered  Archie.  44That  would  be  too  painful  to 
bear."  He  thought  they  were  excusing  themselves 
from  partaking  of  their  neighbors'  hospitality  be- 
cause they  were  too  poor  to  return  it,  and  wanted 
to  set  them  at  their  ease.  44You  nay  have  reasons 
for  wishing  to  be  quiet.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Challoner's 
health, and — and — parties  are  not  always  desirable," 
he  went  on,  floundering  a  little  in  his  speech,  and 
signing  to  Mattie  to  come  to  his  help,  which  she  did 
at  once,  breathlessly: 

"Parties!  Oh,  dear,  no!  They  are  such  a 
trouble  and  expense.  But  tennis  and  tea  on  the 
lawn  is  just  nothing — nothing  at  all.  One  can  give 
a  little  fruit  and  some  home-made  cake.  No  one 
need  scruple  at  that.  Archie  is  not  rich-  -clergy- 
men never  are,  you  know — but  he  means  to  enter- 
tain his  friends  as  well  as  he  can.  I  should  like  you 
to  see  Miss  Middleton.  She  is  a  charming  person. 
And  the  colonel  is  as  nice  as  possible.  We  will 
just  ask  them  to  meet  you  in  a  quiet  way,  and,  if 
your  mother  is  not  too  much  of  an  invalid,  I  hope 


NOT  LIKE  OTh£K  GiRLS.  197 

she  will  give  us  the  pleasure  of  her  company;  for 
when  people  are  such  close  neighbors  it  is  stupid  to 
stand  on  ceremony,"  finished  Mattie,  bringing  her- 
self rapidly  to  a  full  stop. 

"You  are  very  kind.  But  you  do  not  understand," 
returned  Phillis.  And  then  she  stopped,  and  a  gleam 
of  fun  came  into  her  eyes.  Her  sharp  ears  had 
caught  the  rattle  of  cups  and  saucers.  Actually, 
that  absurd  Dorothy  was  bringing  in  tea  in  the  old 
way,  making  believe  that  they  were  entertaining 
their  friends  in  Glen  Cottage  fashion!  She  must 
get  out  the  truth  somehow  before  the  pretty  purple 
china  made  its  appearance.  "Oh,"  she  went  on, 
with  a  sort  of  gulp,  as  though  she  felt  the  sudden 
touch  of  cold  water,  "you  come  here  meaning 
kindly,  and  asking  us  to  your  house,  and  taking 
compassion  upon  us  because  we  are  strangers  and 
lonely,  and  you  do  not  know  that  we  are  poor,  and 
that  we  have  lost  our  money,  and — "  But  here  Mr. 
Drummond  was  absolutely  rude  enough  to  inter- 
rupt her. 

"What  does  that  matter,  my  dear  Miss  Challoner? 
Do  you  think  that  is  of  any  consequence  in  mine  or 
my  sister's  eyes?  I  suppose  if  1  be  your  clergy- 
man— "  Then  he  stopped  and  stroked  his  beard  in 
an  embarrassed  way;  for  though  Phillis's  tace  was 
pale,  there  was  laughter  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  if  this  be  a  parochial  visit,"  she  began,  de- 
murely; "but  you  should  not  have  talked  of  tennis, 
Mr.  Drummond.  How  do  you  know  we  are  not 
Roman  Catholics  or  Wesleyans,  or  even  Baptists  or 
Bible  Christians?  We  might  have  gone  to  your 
church  out  of  curiosity  on  Sunday,  or  to  see  the 
fashions.  There  is  not  a  Quaker  cut  about  us;  but, 
'still,  we  might  be '  Unitarians,  and  people  would 
not  find  it  out,"  continued  Phillis,  looking  with 
much  solemnity  at  the  bewildered  young  Angli- 
can. 

The  situation  was  too  absurd,  there  was  no  know- 
ing to  what  length  Phillis's  recklessness  and  sense 


198  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

of  humor  would  have  brought  her,  only  Nan's  good 
sense  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Phillis  is  only  in  fun,  Mr.  Drummond.  Of 
course  we  are  church  people,  and  of  course  we  hope 
to  attend  your  services.  I  am  sure  my  mother  will 
be  pleased  to  see  you,  when  you  are  kind  enough  to 
call.  At  Oldfield  we  were  always  good  friends  with 
our  clergyman;  he  was  such  a  dear  old  man." 

"Do  you  mean  to  forbid  my  sister's  visits, 
then?"  asked  Archie,  looking  anxiously  at  her  sweet 
face;  Nan  looked  so  pretty,  in  spite  of  her  discom- 
posure. 

"Oh,  no!  we  do  not  mean  to  be  so  rude;  do  we, 
Phillis?  We  should  be  glad  to  see  Miss  Drummond; 
but — but,"  faltered  Nan,  losing  breath  a  little,  "we 
have  been  unfortunate,  and  must  work  for  our  liv- 
ing, and  your  sister  perhaps  would  not  care  to  visit 
dressmakers." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Archie;  he  almost  jumped 
out  of  his  chair  in  surprise. 

Phillis  had  uttered  a  faint  "Bravo,  Nan!"  but  no 
one  heard  her.  Dulce's  cheeks  were  crimson,  and 
she  would  not  look  at  any  one;  but  Nan,  who  had 
got  out  the  dreaded  word,  went  on  bravely,  and  was 
well  hugged  by  Phillis  in  private  afterward. 

"We  are  not  clever  enough  for  governesses,"  con- 
tinued Nan,  with  a  charming  smile,  addressing  Mat- 
He,  who  sat  and  stared  at  her,  "and  there  was  noth- 
ing we  dreaded  so  much  as  to  separate;  so,  as  we 
had  capable  fingers  and  were  fond  of  work,  my  sis- 
ter Phillis  planned  this  for  us.  Now  you  see,  Miss 
Drummond,  why  we  could  not  accept  your  kind 
hospitality.  Whatever  we  have  been,  we  can  not 
expect  people  to  visit  us  now.  If  you  would  be 
good  enough  to  recommend  us,  and  help  us  in  our 
efforts  to  make  ourselves  independent,  that  is  all 
we  can  ask  of  you. ' ' 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  returned  Mattie,  bluntly; 
"as  far  as  1  am  concerned,  I  am  never  ashamed  of 
any  honest  calling.  What  do  you  say,  Archie?" 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  199 

**I  say  it  is  all  very  proper  and  laudable,"  he  re- 
turned, hesitating;  "but  surely — surely  there  must 
be  some  other  way  more  suitable  for  ladies  in  your 
position.  Let  me  call  again  when  your  mother 
comes,  and  see  if  there  is  nothing  that  I  can  do  or 
recommend  better  than  this.  Yes,  I  am  sure,  if  I 
can  only  talk  to  your  mother,  we  could  find  some 
other  way  than  this." 

44 Indeed,  Mr.  Drummond,  you  must  do  nothing 
of  the  kind,"  replied  Phillis,  in  an  alarmed  voice; 
4 'the  poor  dear  mother  must  not  be  disturbed  by 
any  such  talk!  You  mean  it  kindly,  but  we  have 
made  up  our  own  minds,  Nan  and  1;  we  mean  to 
do  without  the  world  and  live  in  one  of  our  own; 
and  we  mean  to  carry  out  our  plan  in  defiance  of 
everything  and  everybody;  and  though  you  are  a 
clergyman,  and  we  are  bound  to  listen  to  your  ser- 
mons, we  can  not  take  your  advice  in  this." 

"But — but  I  would  willingly  act  as  a  friend," 
began  the  young  man,  confusedly,  looking  not  at 
her,  but  at  Nan. 

He  was  so  bewildered,  so  utterly  taken  aback,  he 
hardly  knew  what  he  said. 

44 Here  comes  Dorothy  with  the  tea,"  interrupted 
Nan,  pleasantly,  as  though  dismissing  the  subject; 
44she  has  not  forgotten  our  old  customs.  Friends 
always  came  around  us  in  the  afternoon.  Mr. 
Drummond,  perhaps  you  will  make  yourself  useful 
and  cut  the  cake.  Dorothy,  you  need  not  have  un- 
packed the  best  silver  tea-pot. "  Nan  was  moving 
about  in  her  frank,  hospitable  way.  Laddie  was 
whining  for  cake,  and  breaking  into  short  barks  of 
impatience.  44This  is  one  of  our  Glen  Cottage 
cakes.  Susan  always  prides  herself  on  the  recipe, " 
said  Nan,  calmly,  as  she  pressed  it  on  her  guests. 

Mr.  Drummond  almost  envied  his  sister  as  she 
praised  the  cake  and  asked  for  the  recipe.  He  had 
always  found  fault  with  her  manners,  but  now  noth- 
ing could  be  finer  than  her  simplicity.  Pure  g-ood 
nature  and  innate  womanliness  were  teaching  Mat- 


200  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

tie  something  better  than  tact.  Nan  had  dropped  a 
painful  subject,  and  she  would  not  revive  it  in  her 
brother's  presence.  There  would  be  plenty  of  time 
for  her  to  call  and  talk  it  over  with  them  quietly. 
Help  them — of  course  she  would  help  them.  They 
should  have  her  new  silk  dress  that  Uncle  Conway 
had  just  sent  her.  It  was  a  risk,  for  perhaps  they 
might  spoil  it;  but  such  fine  creatures  should  have 
a  chance.  At  present  she  would  only  enjoy  the 
nice  tea,  and  talk  to  poor  little  frightened  Dulce, 
who  seemed  unable  to  open  her  lips  after  her 
sister's  disclosure. 

Archie  could  not  emulate  her  ease;  a  man  is 
always  at  a  disadvantage  in  such  a  case.  His  inter- 
est had  sustained  no  shock;  it  was  even  stimulated 
by  what  he  had  just  heard;  but  his  sympathy 
seemed  all  at  once  congealed,  and  he  could  find  no 
vent  for  it.  In  spite  of  his  best  efforts,  his  manner 
grew  more  and  more  constrained  every  moment. 

Nan  looked  at  him  more  than  once  with  reproach- 
ful sweetness.  She  thought  they  had  lost  caste  in 
his  eyes;  but  Phillis,  who  was  shrewd  and  sharp-set 
in  her  wits,  read  him  more  truly.  She  knew — hav- 
ing already  met  a  score  of  such — how  addicted 
young  Englishmen  are  to  mauvcus  honte,  and  how 
they  will  hide  acute  sensibilities  under  blunt  and 
stolid  exteriors;  and  there  was  a  certain  softness  in 
Mr.  Drummond's  eye  that  belied  his  stiffness. 
Most  likely  he  was  very  sorry  for  them,  and  did  not 
know  how  to  show  it;  and  in  this  she  was  right. 

Mr.  Drummond  was  very  sorry  for  them,  but  he 
was  still  more  grieved  for  himself.  The  Oxford  fel- 
low had  not  long  been  a  parish  priest,  and  he  could 
not  at  all  understand  the  position  in  whic'  he 
found  himself — taking  tea  with  three  elegant  y:  ung 
dressmakers  who  talked  the  purest  English  and  I. ad 
decided  views  on  tennis  and  horticulture.  He  Jiad 
just  been  congratulating  himself  on  securing  such 
companionship  for  his  sister  and  himself.  Being 
rather  classical-minded,  he  had  been  calling  them 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRL&  201 

the  gray-eyed  Graces,  and  one  of  them  at  least  **a 
daughter  of  the  gods — divinely  tall  and  most 
divinely  fair;"  for  where  had  he  seen  anything  to 
compare  with  Nan's  bloom  and  charming  figure? 
Dressmakers! — oh,  if  only  Grace  were  at  hand,  that 
he  might  talk  to  her,  and  gain  her  opinion  how  he 
was  to  act  in  such  a  case!  Grace  had  the  stiff- 
necked  Drummond  pride  as  well  as  he,  and  would 
hesitate  long  behind  the  barriers  of  conventionality. 
No  wonder,  with  all  these  thoughts  passing  through 
his  mind,  that  Nan,  with  her  bright  surface  talk, 
found  him  a  little  vague. 

It  was  quite  a  relief  to  all  the  party  when  Mattie 
gave  the  signal  for  departure  and  the  bell  was  rung 
for  Dorothy  to  show  them  out. 

"Well,  Nan,  what  do  you  think  of  our  visitors?" 
asked  Phillis,  when  the  garden  door  had  clanged 
x  noisily  after  them,  and  she  had  treated  Nan  to  the 
aforesaid  hugs;  "for  you  were  so  brave,  darling, 
and  actually  took  the  wind  out  of  my  sails!"  ex- 
claimed the  enthusiastic  Phillis.  "Miss  Drummond 
is  not  so  bad,  after  all,  is  she?  in  spite  of  her  dovv- 
diness  and  fussy  ways." 

"No;  she  means  well,  and  so  does  her  brother. 
He  is  very  nice,  only  his  self-consciousness  spoils 
him/'  returned  Nan,  in  a  calm,  discursive  tone,  as 
though  they  were  discussing  ordinary  visitors. 

It  was  impossible  for  these  young  girls  to  see  that 
their  ordinary  language  was  not  humble  enough  for 
their  new  circumstances.  They  would  make  mis- 
takes at  every  turn,  like  Dorothy,  who  got  out  the 
best  china  and  brewed  her  tea  in  the  melon-shaped 
silver  tea-pot. 

Phillis  opened  her  eyes  rather  wildly  at  this. 
Nan  was  not  often  so  observant.  It  was  true, 
self-consciousness  was  a  torment  to  Archibald 
Drummond;  a  Frankenstein  of  his  own  creation, 
that  had  grown  perceptibly  with  his  growth  to  the 
full  measure  of  manhood,  as  inseparable  as  the 
shadow  from  the  substance.  Phillis  had  recognized 

H  Other  Girls 


202  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLSe 

it  at  once;  but  then,  as  she  said,  no  one  was  fault- 
less; and  then,  he  was  so  handsome.  *4Very  hand- 
some," chimed  in  Dulce,  whose  opinions  were  full- 
fledged  on  such  matters. 

4tls  he?  Well,  I  never  cared  for  a  man  with  a 
long  fair  beard,"  observed  Nan,  carelessly.  Poor 
Archie!  how  his  vanity  would  have  suffered  if  he 
had  heard  her!  for,  in  a  masculine  way,  he  prided 
himself  excessively  on  the  soft  silky  appendage  that 
Grace  had  so  often  praised.  A  certain  boyish  coun- 
tenance, with  kindly,  honest  eyes  and  a  little  sandy 
mustache  was  more  to  Nan's  taste  than  the  hand- 
some young  Anglican's. 

*4Oh,  we  all  know  Nan's  opinion  in  such  matters," 
said  Dulce,  slyly;  and  then  Nan  blushed,  and  sud- 
denly remembered  that  Dorothy  was  waiting  for  her 
in  the  linen-closet,  and  hurried  away,  leaving  her 
sisters  tu  discuss  their  visitors  to  their  hearts'  con- 
tent. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

ARCHIE   IS   IN    A   BAD   HUMOR. 

"Oh,  Archie,  I  was  never  more  astonished  in  my 
life!"  exclaimed  Mattie,  as  she  tried  to  adapt  her 
uneven  trot  to  her  brother's  long,  swinging  foot- 
steps; and  then  she  glanced  up  in  his  face  to  read 
his  mood;  but  Archie's  features  were  inscrutable 
and  presented  an  appalling  blank.  In  his  mind  he 
was  beginning  his  letter  to  Grace,  and  wondering 
what  he  should  say  to  her  about  their  new  neighbors. 
44  Writing  is  such  a  nuisance  when  one  wants  to  talk 
to  a  person,"  he  thought,  irritably. 

**Oh,  Archie,  won't  you  tell  me  what  we  are  to 
do?"  went  on  Mattie,  excitedly.  Sh*  would  not 
take  Archie's  silence  as  a  hint  that  he  wanted  tokeep 
histhou^hts  to  himself  "Those  poor  girls!  oh,  how 
nice  and  pretty  they  all  are,  especially  the  eldest; 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  G1RL&  -*J(ft 

and  is  not  the  youngest— Dulce,  I  think  they  called 
her — the  very  image  of  Isabel?" 

"Isabel!  not  a  bit.  That  is  so  like  you,  Mattie. 
You  always  see  likenesses  when  other  people  can 
not  trace  the  faintest  resemblance;"  for  this  remark 
was  sure  to  draw  out  his  opposition.  Isabel  was  a 
silly,  flirting  little  thing  in  her  brother's  estimation, 
and,  he  thought,  could  not  hold  a  candle  to  the 
youngest  Miss  Challoner. 

44 Oh,  dear!  now  I  have  made  you  cross!"  sighed 
poor  Mattie,  who  especially  wanted  to  keep  him  in 
good  humor.  "And  yet  every  one  but  you  thinks 
Isabel  so  pretty.  I  am  sure,  from  what  Grace  said 
in  her  last  letter,  that  Mr.  Ellis  Burton  means  to 
propose  to  her." 

"And  I  suppose  you  will  all  consider  that  a 
catch,"  sneered  Archie.  "That  is  so  like  a  parcel 
of  women,  thinking  every  man  who  comes  to  the 
house  and  makes  a  few  smooth-tongued  speeches — 
is,  in  fact,  civil — must  be  after  a  girl.  Of  course 
you  have  all  helped  to  instill  this  nonsense  into  the 
child's  head." 

"Dear  me,  how  you  talk,  Archie!"  returned  Mat- 
tie,  feeling  herself  snubbed,  as  usual.  Why,  Archie 
had  been  quite  excited  about  it  only  the  other  day, 
and  had  said  quite  seriously  that  with  seven  girls 
in  a  family,  it  would  be  a  great  blessing  if  Isabel 
could  make  such  a  match;  for  it  was  very  unlikely 
that  Laura  and  Susie,  or  even  Clara,  would  do  much 
for  themselves  in  that  way,  unless  they  decidedly 
improved  in  looks. 

"Well,  it  is  nothing  to  me,"  he  returned,  in  a 
chilling  manner;  "we  all  know  our  own  mind  best. 
If  an  angular,  lantern- jawed  fellow  like  Burton,  who, 
by  the  bye,  does  not  speak  the  best  English,  is  to 
Isabel's  taste,  let  her  have  him  by  all  means;  he  is 
well-to-do,  and  I  dare  say  will  keep  a  carriage  for 
her  by  and  by;  that  is  what  you  women  think  a  great 
advantage,"  finished  Archie,  who  certainly  seemed 
bent  on  making  himself  disagreeable.  Mattie 


204  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

heaved  another  great  sigh,  but  she  did  not  dare  to 
contradict  him.  Grace  would  have  punished  him 
on  the  spot  by  a  dose  of  satire  that  would  have 
brought  him  to  reason  and  good  nature  in  a  mo- 
ment; but  Mattie  ventured  only  on  those  laborious 
sighs  which  she  jerked  up  from  the  bottom  of  her 
honest  little  heart. 

Archie  heard  the  sigh  and  felt  ashamed  of  his  bad 
temper.  He  did  not  know  himself  why  he  felt  so 
suddenly  cross;  some  secret  irritation  was  at  work 
within  him,  and  he  could  scarcely  refrain  from  bid- 
ding Mattie  quite  roughly  to  hold  her  tongue  and 
not  tease  him  with  her  chatter.  If  she  expected 
him  in  his  present  state  of  mind,  which  was  at  once 
contradictory  and  aggressive,  to  talk  to  her  about 
the  Challoners,  she  must  just  make  up  her  mind 
to  be  disappointed,  for  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  speak  of  them  to  her  just  now;  he  wanted  to  hold 
counsel  with  his  own  thoughts  and  with  Grace. 
He  would  call  at  the  Friary  again  and  see  Mrs. 
Challoner,  and  find  out  more  of  this  strange  mat- 
ter; but  as  to  talking  it  over  with  Mattie,  he  quite 
shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  swung  open  the  green 
door. 

44  Are  you  going  in?"  laltered  Mattie,  as  she  no- 
ticed this  movement. 

44 Well,  yes;  I  have  letters  to  write,  and  it  is  far 
too  hot  for  a  longer  walk,"  he  returned,  decidedly; 
and  then,  as  Mattie  stood  hesitating  and  wistful  in 
the  middle  of  the  road,  he  strode  off,  leaving  the 
door  to  close  noisily  after  him,  and  not  caring  to  in- 
quire into  her  further  movements,  such  being  the 
occasional  graceless  manners  of  brothers  when  sis- 
terly friendship  is  not  to  their  liking. 

Mattie  felt  snubbed;  but,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  she  did  not  take  snubbing  meekly.  It  was  too 
much  to  expect  of  her,  who  was  only  a  woman  and 
not  one  of  Archie's  divinities,  that  she  should  fol- 
low him  into  the  house  and  hold  her  tongue  just 
because  he  was  pleased  to  refrain  from  speaking. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  205 

Water  must  find  its  vent,  and  Mattie's  tongue  could 
not  be  silenced  in  this  way.  If  Archie  would  not 
talk  to  her,  Miss  Middleton  would;  so  at  once  she 
trotted  off  for  Brooklyn,  thereby  incurring  Archie's 
wrath  if  he  could  only  have  known  her  purpose:  for 
gossip  was  to  him  as  the  sin  of  witchcraft,  unless  he 
stooped  to  it  himself,  and  then  it  was  amiable  socia- 
bility. 

Miss  Middleton  was  listening  to  her  father's  read- 
ing as  usual,  but  she  welcomed  Mattie  with  open 
arms,  literally  as  well  as  metaphorically,  for  she 
kissed  Mattie  on  either  cheek,  and  then  scolded  her 
tenderly  for  looking  so  flushed  and  tired;  "for 
somebody  who  is  always  looking  after  other  people, 
and  never  has  time  to  spare  for  herself,  is  growing 
quite  thin;  is  she  not,  father?  and  we  must  write 
to  Grace  if  this  goes  on,"  finished  Miss  Middleton, 
with  one  of  her  kind  looks. 

All  this  was  cordial  to  poor  Mattie,  who,  though 
she  was  used  to  snubbing,  and  took  as  kindly  to  it 
as  a  spaniel  to  water,  yet  felt  herself  growing  rather 
like  a  thread-paper  and  shabby  with  every-day  wor- 
ries and  never  an  encouraging  word  to  inspirit  her. 

So  she  gave  Elizabeth  a  misty  little  smile — Mat- 
tie's  smile  was  pretty,  though  her  features  were  or- 
dinary— and  then  sat  up  straight  and  began  to  en- 
joy herself— that  is,  to  talk — never  noticing  that 
Colonel  Middleton  looked  at  his  paper  in  a  crest- 
fallen manner,  not  much  liking  the  interruption  and 
the  cessation  of  his  own  voice. 

"Oh,  dear!"  began  Mattie;  she  generally  prefaced 
her  remark  by  an  "Oh,  dear!"  ("That  was  one  of 
her  jerky  ways,"  as  Archie  said.)  "I  could  not 
help  coming  straight  to  you,  for  Archie  would  not 
talk,  and  I  felt  I  must  tell  somebody.  Oh,  dear, 
Miss  Middleton!  What  do  you  think?  We  have 
just  called  at  the  Friary— and — "  but  here  Colofcel 
Middleton's  countenance  relaxed,  and  he  dropped 
his  paper. 

4  *  Tfodse  y6ung  ladies,  eh  ?    Come,  'Elisabeth,  tftfe 


206  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

is  interesting.  Well,  what  sort  of  place  is  the 
Friary,  seen  from  the  inside,  eh,  Miss  Drummond?" 

"Oh,  it  is  very  nice,"  returned  Mattie,  enthusi- 
astically. **  We  were  shown  into  such  a  pretty  room, 
looking  out  on  the  garden.  They  have  so  many 
nice  things — pictures  and  old  china  and  handsomely 
bound  books,  and  all  arranged  so  tastefully.  And 
before  we  went  away,  the  old  servant — she  seems 
really  quite  a  superior  person— brought  in  an  ele- 
gant little  tea-tray;  the  cups  and  saucers  were  hand- 
somer even  than  yours.  Miss  Middleton — dark 
purple  and  gold.  Just  what  I  admire  so " 

"Ah,  reduced  in  circumstances!  I  told  you  so, 
Elizabeth,"  ejaculated  the  colonel. 

**I  never  saw  Archie  enjoy  himself  so  much  or 
seem  so  thoroughly  at  home  anywhere.  Some- 
where, the  girls  put  us  so  at  our  ease.  Though 
they  were  hanging  up  curtains  when  we  went  in — 
and  any  one  else  would  have  been  annoyed  at  our 
intruding  so  soon — actually  before  we  were  in  the 
room  a  moment,  Archie  was  on  the  steps,  helping 
the  eldest  Miss  Challoner  fasten  the  hooks." 

Miss  Middleton  exchanged  an  amused  look  with 
her  father.  Mattie 's  narrative  was  decidedly  inter- 
esting. 

"Oh,  don't  tell  him  I  repeated  that,  for  he  is 
always  calling  me  chatter-box!"  implored  Mattie, 
who  feared  she  had  been  indiscreet,  and  that  the 
colonel  was  not  to  be  trusted,  which  was  quite  true 
as  far  as  jokes  were  concerned.  No  one  under- 
stood the  art  of  teasing  better  than  he,  and  the 
young  vicar  had  already  had  a  taste  of  his  kindly 
satire.  "Archie  only  meant  to  be  good-natured  and 
put  every  one  at  their  ease." 

"Quite  right.  Mr.  Drummond  is  always  kind, " 
returned  Elizabeth,  benignly.  She  had  forgotten 
Mattie's  frequent  scoldings,  and  the  poor  little 
thing's  tired  face,  or  she  would  never  have  hazarded 
such  a  compromise  with  truth.  But  somehow  Eliz- 
abeth always  forgot  people's  weaknesses,  especially 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  307 

when  they  were  absent.  It  was  so  nice  and  easy  to 
praise  people;  and  if  she  always  believed  what  she 
said,  that  was  because  her  faith  was  so  strong,  and 
chanty  that  is  love  was  her  second  nature. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course/'  returned  Mattie,  innocently. 
She  was  far  too  loyal  a  little  soul  to  doubt  Archie's 
kindness  for  a  moment.  Was  he  not  the  pride  and 
ornament  of  the  family,  the  domestic  pope  who 
issued  his  bulls  without  possibility  of  contradiction? 
Whatever  Archie  did  mus;  be  right.  Was  not  that 
their  domestic  creed? — a  lijl^  slavish,  perhaps,  but 
still  so  exquisitely  feminine.  Mattie  was  of  opinion 
that — well,  to  use  a  mild  term — irritability  was  a 
necessary  adjunct  of  manhood.  All  men  were  cross 
sometimes.  It  behooved  their  womankind,  then,  ta 
throw  oil  on  the  troubled  waters — to  speak  peace* 
ably,  and  to  refrain  from  sour  looks,  or  even  the 
shadow  of  a  frown.  Archie  was  ntver  cross  with 
Grace;  therefore  it  must  be  she,  Mattie,  on  whom 
the  blame  lay;  she  was  such  a  silly  little  thing. 
And  so  on.  There  is  no  need  to  follow  the  self- 
accusation  of  one  of  the  kindest  hearts  that  ever 
beat. 

"Did  not  your  visit  end  as  pleasantly  as  it  began?" 
asked  Elizabeth,  who,  though  she  was  overmercif ul 
in  her  judgments,  was  not  without  a  good  deal  of 
sagacity  and  shrewdness.  Something  lay  beyond 
the  margin  of  Mattie's  words,  she  could  see  that 
plainly;  and  then  her  father  was  getting  impatient. 

"Well,  you  see,  that  spoiled  everything,"  re- 
turned Mattie,  jumbling  her  narrative  in  the  oddest 
manner.  "Archie  was  so  sorry,  and  so  was  I;  and 
he  got  quite — you  know  his  way  when  he  feels 
uncomfortable.  I  thought  Miss  Challoner  was  jok- 
ing at  first — that  it  was  just  a  bit  of  make-believe 
fun — until  I  saw  how  grave  Miss  Phillis,  that  is  the 
second  one,  looked^  and  then  the  little  one — at  least, 
she  is  not  little,  but  somehow  one  fancies  she  is-— 
seemed  as  though  she  were  going  to  cry. " 

"But  what  did  Miss  Cballoner  say  to  distress  you 


208  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

and  Mr.  Drummond  so?"  asked  Elizabeth,  trying 
patiently  to  elicit  facts  and  not  vague  statements 
from  Mattie. 

"Oh,  she  said — no,  please  don't  think  I  am  exag- 
gerating, for  it  is  all  true — that  they  had  lost  their 
money,  and  were  very  poor,  and  that  she  and  her 
sisters  were  dressmakers." 

"Dressmakers!"  shouted  the  colonel,  and  his 
ruddy  face  grew  almost  purple  with  the  shock;  his 
very  mustache  seemed  to  bristle. 

"Dressmakers!  my  dear  Miss  Drummond,  I  don't 
believe  a  word  of  it.  Those  girls!  It  is  a  hoax!— 
a  bit  of  nonsense  from  beginning  to  end!" 

"Hush,  father!  you  are  putting  Mattie  out,'1 
returned  Elizabeth,  mildly.  It  was  one  of  her 
idiosyncrasies  to  call  people  as  soon  as  possible  by 
their  Christian  names,  though  no  one  but  her  father 
and  brother  ever  called  her  Elizabeth.  Perhaps  her 
gray  hair  and  a  certain  soft  dignity  that  belonged 
to  her  forbade  such  freedom.  "Dear  father,  we 
must  let  Mattie  speak."  But  even  Elizabeth  let 
her  work  lie  unheeded  in  her  lap  in  the  engrossing 
interest  of  the  subject. 

"I  do  not  mean  they  have  been  dressmakers  all 
this  time,  but  this  is  their  plan  for  the  future.  Miss 
Challoner  said  they  were  not  clever  enough  for 
governesses,  and  that  they  did  not  want  to  separate. 
But  that  is  what  they  mean  to  do — to  make  dresses 
for  people  who  are  not  half  so  good  as  themselves." 

"Preposterous!  absurd!"  groaned  the  colonel. 
"Where  is  their  mother?  What  can  the  old  lady  be 
thinking  about?"  Mrs.  Challoner  was  not  an  old 
lady  by  any  means;  but  then  the  choleric  colonel 
had  never  seen  her,  or  he  would  not  have  applied 
that  term  to  the  aristocratic- looking  gentlewoman 
whom  Mattie  had  admired  in  Miss  Milner's  shop. 

44 1  had  a  good  look  round  the  room  afterward," 
went  on  Mattie,  letting  this  pass.  "They  had  got 
a  great  carved  wardrobe — I  thought  that  funny  in  a 
sitting-room:  but,  of  course,  it  was  for  the  dresses" 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  209 

— another  groan  from  the  colonel — "and  there  was 
a  sewing-machine,  and  a  rosewood  davenport  for 
accounts,  and  a  chiffonier,  of  course,  for  the  pieces 
Oh,  they  mean  business;  and  I  should  not  be  sur- 
prised if  they  understand  their  work  well,"  went  on 
Mattie,  warming  up  to  her  subject,  and  thinking  of 
the  breadths  oi  green  silk  that  reposed  so  snugly 
between  silver  paper  in  her  drawers  at  the  vicarage 
— the  first  silk  dress  she  had  ever  owned,  for  the 
Drummond  finances  did  not  allow  of  such  luxuries 
— the  new  color,  too;  such  a  soft,  invisible,  shadowy 
green,  like  an  autumn  leaf  shriveled  by  the  sun's 
richness.  "Oh,  if  they  should  spoil  it!"  thought 
Mattie,  with  a  sigh,  as  the  magnitude  of  her  intended 
sacrifice  weighed  heavily  upon  her  mind. 

"It  is  sheeer  girlish  nonsense — I  might  say  fool- 
ary;  and  the  mother  must  be  a  perfect  idiot!"  began 
the  colonel,  angrily. 

He  was  an  excitable  man,  and  his  wrath  at  the 
intelligence  was  really  very  great.  He  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  the  newcomers,  and  was  prepared  to  wel- 
come them  heartily  in  his  genial  way;  but  now  his 
old-fashioned  prejudices  were  grievously  wounded. 
It  was  against  his  nice  code  of  honor  that  women 
should  do  anything  out  of  the  usual  beaten  groove; 
innovations  that  would  make  them  conspicuous  were 
heinous  sins  in  his  eyes. 

"Come,  Mattie,  you  and  I  will  have  a  chat  about 
this  by  ourselves,"  observed  Elizabeth,  cheerfully, 
as  she  noticed  her  father's  vexation.  He  would 
soon  cool  down  if  left  to  himself;  she  knew  that 
well.  "Suppose  we  go  down  to  Miss  Milncr,  and 
hear  what  she  has  to  say;  you  may  depend  upon  it 
that  it  was  this  that  made  her  so  reserved  with  us 
the  other  day." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so?"  exclaimed  Mattie;  but  she 
was  charmed  at  the  idea  of  fresh  gossip.  And  then 
they  set  off  together. 

Miss  Milner  seemed  a  little  surprised  to  see  them 
so  soon,  for  Mattie  had  already  paid  her  a  visit  that 


210  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

day;  but  at  Miss  Middleton's  first  words  a  look  of 
annoyance  passed  over  her  good-natured  face. 

"Dear,  dear!  to  think  of  that  leaking  out  already," 
she  said,  in  a  vexed  voice;  "and  I  have  not  spoken 
to  a  soul,  because  the  young  ladies  asked  me  to  keep 
their  secret  a  few  days  longer.  'You  must  give  us 
till  next  Monday,'  one  of  them  said  this  very  morn- 
ing; 4by  that  time  we  shall  be  in  order,  and  then 
we  can  set  to  work." 

"It  was  Miss  Challoner  who  told  me  herself," 
observed  Mattie,  in  a  deprecating  manner.  "My 
brother  and  I  called  this  afternoon.  You  see,  being 
the  clergyman,  and  such  close  neighbors,  he  thought 
we  might  be  of  some  use  to  the  poor  things." 

"Poor  things,  indeed!"  ejaculated  Miss  Milner. 
"I  can  not  tell  you  how  bad  I  felt,"  she  went  on, 
her  little  gray  curls  bobbing  over  her  high  cheek- 
bones with  every  word,  "when  that  dear  young  lady 
put  down  her  head  there" — pointing  to  a  spot  about 
as  big  as  a  half-crown  on  the  wooden  counter — "and 
cried  like  a  baby.  'Oh,  how  silly  I  am!'  she  said, 
sobbing  like;  'and  what  would  my  sisters  say  to 
me?  But  you  are  so  kind,  Miss  Milner;  and  it  does 
seem  all  so  strange  and  horrid.'  I  made  up  my 
mind  then  and  there,"  finished  the  good  woman, 
solemnly,  "that  I  would  help  them  to  the  best  of 
my  power.  I  have  got  their  bits  of  advertisements 
to  put  about  the  shop;  and  there's  my  new  black 
silk  dress,  that  has  laid  by  since  Christmas,  because 
I  knew  Miss  Slasher  would  spoil  it;  not  but  what 
they  may  ruin  it  finely  for  me;  but  I  mean  to  shut 
my  eves  and  take  the  risk,"  with  a  little  smile  of 
satisfaction  over  her  own  magnanimity. 

Elizabeth  stretched  out  her  hand  across  the 
counter. 

"Miss  Milner,  you  area  good  creature,"  she  said, 
softly.  "I  honor  you  for  this.  If  people  always 
helped  each  other,  and  thought  so  little  of  a  sacri- 
fice, the  world  would  be  a  happier  place. "  And 
then,  without  waiting  for  a  reply  frocn  the  gratified 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  211 

shopwoman,  she  went  out  of  the  library  with  a 
thoughtful  brow. 

44 Miss  Milner  has  read  me  a  lesson,"  she  said,  by 
and  by,  when  Mattie  had  marveled  at  her  silence  a 
little.  "Conventionality  makes  cowards  of  the  best 
of  us.  I  am  not  particularly  worldly  minded/'  she 
went  on,  with  a  faint  smile,  *'but  all  the  same  I 
must  plead  guilty  to  feeling  a  little  shocked  myself 
at  your  news;  but  when  I  have  thought  a,  little 
more  about  it  1  dare  say  I  shall  see  things  by  a  truer 
light,  and  be  as  ready  to  admire  these  girls  as  I  am 
now  to  wonder  at  them."  And  after  this  she  bade 
Mattie  a  kindly  good  bye. 

Meanwhile,  Phillis  was  bracing  herself  to  undergo 
another  ordeal.  Mr.  Drummond  and  his  sister  had 
only  just  left  the  cottage  when  a  footman  from  the 
White  House  brought  a  note  for  her.  It  was  from 
Mrs.  Cheyne.  and  was  worded  in  a  most  friendly 
manner. 

She  thanked  the  sisters  gracefully  for  their  timely 
help  on  the  previous  evening,  and,  though  making 
light  of  her  accident,  owned  that  it  would  keep  her 
a  prisoner  to  her  sofa  for  a  few  days;  and  then  she 
begged  them  to  waive  ceremony  and  come  to  her 
for  an  hour  or  two  that  evening. 

44 1  will  not  ask  you  to  dinner,  because  that  will 
perhaps  inconvenience  you,  as  you  must  be  tired  or 
busy,"  she  wrote;  "but  if  one  or  both  of  you  would 
just  put  on  your  hats  and  walk  up  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening  to  keep  Miss  Mewlstone  and  myself  com- 
pany, it  would  be  a  real  boon  to  us  both."  And 
then  she  signed  herself  ''Magdalene  Cheyne." 

Phillis  wore  a  perplexed  look  on  her  face  as  she 
took  the  note  to  Nan,  who  was  still  in  the  linen 
closet. 

4  Very  kind,  very  friendly,"  commented  Nan, 
when  she  had  finished  reading  it:  '*but  I  could  not 
possibly  go,  Phil.  As  soon  as  I  have  done  this  I 
bave  promised  to  sit  with  mother.  She  has,  been 


812  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

alone  all  day.     You  could  easily  send  an  excuse,  for 
Mrs.  Cheyne  must  know  we  are  busy." 

"I  don't  feel  as  though  an  excuse  will  help  us 
here  "  returned  Phillis,  slowly.  "When  an  unpleas- 
ant thing  has  to  be  done,  it  is  as  well  to  get  it  over; 
thinking  about  it  only  hinders  one's  sleep." 

"But  you  will  surely  not  go  alone?"  demanded 
Nan,  in  astonishment.  "You  are  so  tired,  Phil; 
you  have  been  working  hard  all  day  Give  it  up, 
dear,  and  sit  and  rest  in  the  garden  a  little." 

"Oh,  no,"  returned  Phillis,  disconsolately  "1 
value  my  night's  rest  too  much  to  imperil  it  so 
lightly,  besides,  I  owe  it  to  myself  for  a  penance 
for  being  such  a  coward  this  afternoon.''  And 
then,  without  waiting  for  any  further  discussion, 
she  carried  off  the  letter  and  wrote  a  very  civil  but 
vague  reply,  promising  to  walk  up  in  the  evening 
and  inquire  after  the  invalid;  and  then  she  dismissed 
the  messenger,  and  went  up  to  her  room  with  a 
heavy  heart. 

Dulce  came  to  help  her,  like  a  dutiful  sister,  and 
chattered  on  without  intermission. 

"I  suppose  you  will  put  on  your  best  dress?' "  she 
asked,  as  she  dived  down  into  the  recesses  of  a  big 
box. 

Phillis,  who  was  sitting  wearily  on  the  edge  of  her 
bed,  roused  up  at  this: 

"My  best  blue  silk  and  cashmere,  that  we  wore 
last  at  Fitzroy  Lodge?  Dulce,  how  can  you  be  so 
absurd?  Anything  will  do — the  gray  stuff  or  the 
old  foulard.  No,  stop,  I  forgot;  the  gray  dress  is 
better  made  and  newer  in  cut.  We  must  think  of 
that  Oh,  what  a  worry  it  is  going  out  when  one 
is  tired  to  death!"  she  continued,  with  unusual  irri- 
tation. 

Dulce  respected  her  sister's  mood  and  neld  her 
peace,  though  she  knew  the  gray  dress  was  the  least 
becoming  to  Phillis  who  was  pale,  and  wanted  a 
little  color  to  give  her  brightness. 

''There,  now,  you  look  quite  nice,"  she  said,  in  a 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  218 

patronizing  voice,  as  Phillis  put  on  her  hat  and  took 
her  gloves  Phillis  nodded  her  thanks  rather  sadly, 
and  tnen  bethought  herself  and  came  back  and 
kissed  her. 

"Thank  you,  dear  Dulce;  I  am  not  nearly  so  tired 
now;  but  it  is  getting  late,  and  I  must  run  off. " 
And  so  she  did  until  sne  had  turned  the  corner,  and 
then,  in  spite  of  herself,  her  steps  became  slower 
and  more  lagging. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


Human  nature  is  prone  to  argument;  a  person 
will  often  in  the  course  of  a  few  moments  bring 
himself  or  herself  to  the  bar  of  conscience,  and 
accuse,  excuse,  and  sum  up  the  case  m  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye. 

On  arriving  at  the  lodge  gates  Phillis  began  to 
take  herself  to  task.  Conscience,  that  "makes 
cowards  of  us  all,"  began  its  small  inner  remon- 
strance, then  followed  self-flagellation  and  much 
belaboring  of  herself  th  many  remorseful  terms. 
She  was  a  pitiful  thing  compared  to  Nan;  she  was 
conventional;  there  were  no  limits  to  her  pride. 
Where  were  that  freedom  and  nobility  of  soul  which 
she  once  fancied  would  sweep  over  worldly  preju- 
dices, and  carry  her  into  purer  air?  She  was  still 
choking  in  the  fogs  of  mere  earthly  exhalations. 
No  wonder  Nan  was  a  little  disappointed  in  her, 
though  she  was  far  too  kind  to  say  so.  V/ell,  she 
was  disappointed  in  herself. 

By  this  time  she  had  reached  the  hall  door;  and 
now  she  bec^an  to  hold  up  her  head  more  boldly, 
and  cO  look  about  her.  When  a  very  solemn-look- 
ing butler  confronted  her  she  said  to  herself,  "It 
will  be  all  the  same  a  hundred  years  hence,  and  I 
ain  determined  this  time  not  to  be  beaten;1' and 


214  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

then  she  asked  for  Mrs.  Cheyne  with  something  of 
her  old  sprightliness,  and  nothing  could  exceed  the 
graceful  ease  of  her  entrance. 

All  the  Challoners  walked  well.  There  was  a 
purity  of  health  about  them  that  made  them  delight 
in  movement  and  every  bodily  exercise — an  elas- 
ticity of  gait  that  somehow  attracted  attention. 

No  girls  danced  better  than  they.  And  when 
they  had  the  chance,  which  was  seldom,  they  could 
ride  splendidly.  Their  skating  was  a  joy  to  see, 
and  made  one  wish  that  the  ice  would  last  brever, 
that  one  could  watch  such  light,  skimming  prac- 
tice; and  as  for  tennis,  no  other  girl  had  a  chance 
of  being  chosen  for  a  partner  unless  the  Challoners 
good-naturedly  held  aloof,  which  ten  times  out  of 
twelve  they  were  sure  to  do. 

Phillis,  who?  from  her  pale  complexion,  was  sup- 
posed to  possess  the  least  vitality,  delighted  in 
exercise  for  its  own  sake.  4ilt  is  a  pleasure  only  to 
be  alive  and  to  know  it,"  was  a  favorite  speech  with 
her  on  summer  mornings,  when  the  shadows  were 
blowing  lightly  hither  and  thither,  and  the  birds  had 
so  much  to  say  that  it  took  them  until  evening  to 
finish  saying  it. 

Mrs.  Cheyne,  who  was  lying  on  her  couch,  watched 
with  admiring  eyes  the  giii'  straightforward  walk, 
so  alert  and  business-like,  so  iree  from  fuss  and 
consciousness,  and  held  out  her  hand  with  a  more 
cordial  welcome  than  she  was  accustomed  to  show 
her  visitors. 

It  was  a  long  room  ,  and  as  the  summer  dusk  was 
falling,  and  there  was  only  ~,  shaded  lamp  beside 
Mrs  Cheyne,  it  was  full  of  dim  corners.  Neverthe- 
less. Phillis  piloted  herself  without  hesitation  to  the 
illuminated  circle 

"This  is  good  of  you,  Miss  Challoner,  to  take  me 
at  my  word.  But  where  is  your  sister?  I  wanted 
to  look  at  her  again,  for  it  is  long  since  I  have  seen 
any  one  so  pretty.  Miss  Mewlstone,  this  is  the 
good  Samaritan  who  bound  up  my  foot  so  cleverly." 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  216 

"Ah,  just  so,'  returned  Miss  Mewlstone;  and  a 
soft,  plump  hand  L/uched  Phillis's,  and  then  she 
went  on  pickm0  up  stitches  and  taking  no  further 
notice. 

"Nan  could  not  come,"  observed  Phillis.  "She 
had  to  run  down  to  Beach  House  to  report  progress 
to  mother.  We  hope  she  is  coming  home  to-mor- 
row. But  ac  you  were  so  kind  as  to  write,  I 
thought  I  would  just  call  and  inquire  about  your 
foot.  And  then  it  would  be  easier  to  explain  things 
than  to  write  about  them." 

"Oht  so  your  mother  is  coming  home!"  returned 
Mrs.  Cheyne,  with  so  much  interest  in  her  voice 
that  Miss  Mewlstone  left  off  counting  to  look  at  her. 
("Just  so,  just  so,"  Phillis  heard  her  mutter.) 

"You  must  have  worked  hard  to  get  ready  for  her 
so  soon.  When  my  foot  will  allow  me  to  cross  a 
room  without  hobbling,  1  will  do  myself  the  pleas- 
ure of  calling  on  her  But  that  will  be  neither  this 
week  nor  the  next,  I  am  afraid.  But  I  shall  see  a 
good  deal  of  you  and  yout  sister  before  then,"  she 
concluded,  with  the  graciousness  of  one  who  knows 
she  is  conferring  an  unusual  honor. 

"I  do  not  know,"  faltered  Phillis.  And  then  she 
sat  upright  and  looked  her  hostess  full  in  the  face. 
"That  will  be  for  you  to  decide  when  you  hear 
what  I  have  to  say.  But  I  fear" — with  a  very  poor 
attempt  at  a  smile — "that  we  shall  see  very  little  of 
each  other  in  the  future." 

"Oh,  there  is  a  mystery,  is  there?"  returned  Mrs. 
Cheyne,  with  a  little  scorn  in  her  manner;  and  her 
mouth  took  one  of  the  downward  curves  that  Mr. 
Drummond  so  thoroughly  disliked.  She  had  taken 
an  odd  fancy  to  these  girls,  especially  to  Phillis,  and 
had  thought  about  them  a  good  deal  during  a  sleep- 
less, uneasy  night.  Their  simplicity,  their  straight- 
forward unconsciousness,  had  attracted  her  in  spite 
of  her  cynicism.  But  at  the  first  suspicion  of  mys- 
tery she  withdrew  into  herself  rather  haughtily. 
"Do  speak  out,  I  beg,  Miss  Challoner;  tor  if  there 


216  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

be  one  thing  that  makes  me  impatient  it  is  to  have 
anything  implied/' 

44 1  am  quite  of  your  opinion,"  replied  Phillis, 
with  equal  haughtiness,  only  it  sat  more  strangely 
on  her  girlishness.  "That  is  why  I  am  here  to-night 
—just  to  inquire  after  your  foot  and  explain  things. " 

"Well?"  still  more  impatiently,  for  this  woman 
was  a  spoiled  child,  and  hated  to  be  thwarted,  and 
was  undisciplined  and  imperious  enough  to  ruin  all 
her  own  chances  of  happiness. 

44 1  told  you  that  we  were  very  poor,  *  went  on 
Phillis,  in  a  sweet  and  steady  voice;  44but  that  did 
not  seem  to  impress  you  much,  and  I  thought  how 
noble  that  was" — catching  her  breath  an  instant, 
44but  it  will  make  a  difference  and  shock  you  dread- 
fully, as  it  did  Mr.  Drummond,  when  I  tell  you  we 
are  dressmakers — Nan  and  Dulce  and  I;  at  least, 
that  will  be  our  future  occupation." 

44Ah,  just  so!"  ejaculated  Miss  Mewlstone;  but 
she  said  it  with  her  lips  far  apart,  and  a  mistiness 
came  into  her  sleepy  blue  eyes.  Perhaps,  though 
she  was  stout  and  middle-aged  and  breathed  a  little 
too  heavily  at  times,  she  remembered — long  ago 
when  she  was  young  and  poor  and  had  to  wage  a 
bitter  war  with  the  world — when  she  ate  dry  bread 
and  drank  the  bitter  water  of  dependence,  and  felt 
herself  ill  nourished  by  such  unpalatable  suste- 
nance. 4kOh,  just  so,  poor  thing!"  And  a  little 
round  tear  dripped  on  to  the  ball  of  scarlet  fleecy 
wool. 

But  Mrs  Cheyne  listened  to  the  announcement  in 
far  different  mood.  There  was  an  incredulous  stare 
at  Phillis,  as  though  she  suspected  her  of  a  joke; 
and  then  she  laughed,  a  dry,  harsh  laugh,  that  was 
not  quite  pleasant  to  hear. 

44Oh,  this  is  droll,  passing  droll!"  she  said,  and 
leaned  back  on  her  cushions,  and  drew  her  Indian 
cashmere  shawl  round  her,  and  frowned  a  little. 

41 1  am  glad  you  find  it  so,"  returned  Phillis,  who 
was  nonplussed  at  this,  and  did  not  know  what  to 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  217 

say,  and  was  a  little  angry  in  consequence;  and 
then  she  got  up  from  her  chair  with  a  demonstration 
of  spirit.  "I  am  glad  you  find  it  so;  but  to  us  it  is 
sad  earnestness." 

"What!  are  you  going?"  asked  Mrfe.  Cheyne,  with 
a  keen  glance  through  her  half-shut  eyes  at  poor 
Phillis  standing  so  tall  and  straight  before  her. 
"And  you  have  not  told  me  the  reason  for  taking  so 
strange  a  step!" 

"The  reason  lies  in  our  poverty  and  paucity  of 
resources,"  was  Phillis's  curt  reply. 

"It  is  not  to  make  a  sensation,  then?  No,  I  do 
not  mean  that,"  as  Phillis  shot  an  indignant  glance 
at  her — "not  exactly;  but  there  is  no  knowing 
what  the  emancipated  girl  will  do.  Of  course  I 
have  no  right  to  question,  who  was  a  stranger  to 
you  four-and-twenty  hours  ago,  and  had  never 
heard  the  name  of  Challoner.  except  that  it  was  a 
good  and  an  old  name;  but  when  one  sees  young 
things  like  you  about  lo  forfeit  caste  and  build  up 
a  barrier  between  yourselves  and  your  equals  that 
the  bravest  will  fear  to  pass,  it  seems  as  though 
one  must  lift  up  one's  voice  in  protest." 

"Thank  you;  but  it  will  be  of  no  use,"  returned 
Phillis,  coldly. 

"You  are  determined  to  make  other  people's 
dresses?"  And  here  her  lip  curled  a  little,  perhaps 
involuntarily. 

<4We  must  make  dresses  or  starve;  for  our  fingers 
are  cleverer  than  our  brains,"  replied  Phillis,  de- 
fiantly; for  she  knew  nothing  about  it,  and  her 
powers  were  so  immature  and  unfledged  that  she 
had  never  tried  her  wings,  and  had  no  notion 
whether  she  could  fly  or  not,  and  yet  no' girl  had  a 
clearer  head.  "We  have  chosen  work  that  we  know 
we  can  do  well,  and  we  mean  not  to  be  ashamed  of 
our  occupation.  In  the  old  days  ladies  used  to  spin 
and  weave,  and  no  one  blamed  them,  though  they 
were  noble;  and  if  my  work  will  bring  me  money, 


218  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

and  keep  the  mother  comfortable,  I  see  nothing 
that  will  prevent  my  doing  it." 

"Ah,  you  are  romantic,  Miss  Challoner;  you  will 
soon  be  taught  matter-of-fact!" 

4tl  am  willing  to  learn  anything,  b-t  I  must 
choose  my  teachers,"  retorted  Phi  His,  with  a  little 
heat,  for  the  word  "romantic"  and  the  satirical 
droop  of  Mrs  Cheyne's  lips  made  her  decidedly 
cross.  "But  I  must  not  detain  you  any  more  with 
our  uninteresting  affairs, "  dropping  a  little  courtesy, 
half  in  pique  and  half  in  mockery,  for  her  spirits 
were  rising  under  this  rough  treatment. 

"It  is  far  from  uninteresting;  I  have  not  heard 
anything  so  exciting  for  a  long  time.  Well,  per- 
haps you  had  better  go  before  I  say  anything  very 
rude,  for  I  am  terribly  outspolien,  and  I  think  you 
are  all  silly,  self-willed  young  people."  Then,  as 
Phillis  bridled  her  neck  like  an  untamed  colt,  she 
caught  hold  of  the  girl's  dress  to  detain  her,  and  the 
sharpness  passed  out  of  her  eyes.  "Now,  don't  go 
away  and  believe  that  I  think  any  worse  of  you  for 
telling  me  this.  I  am  a  cross-grained  body,  and 
contradiction  makes  me  worse  I  don't  know  how 
I  shall  act:  I  must  have  time  to  consider  this  extra- 
ordinary bit  of  news.  But  all  the  same,  whatever  I 
do.  whether  I  know  you  or  do  not  know  you,  I  shall 
always  think  you  the  very  bravest  girl  I  ever  saw." 
And  then  she  let  her  go,  and  Phillis,  with  her  head 
in  the  air  and  her  thoughts  all  topsy-turvy,  marched 
out  ot  the  room. 

But  when  she  reached  the  end  of  the  corridor 
there  was  a  soft  but  distinctly  audible  or^auiing 
behind  her,  and,  as  in  Mr.  Drumtnond's  c^se, 
Miss  Mewlstone's  shadowy  gray  gown  swept  be- 
tween her  and  the  door< 

"Miss  Mewlstone,  how  you  startled  me !  but  the 
carpets  are  so  soft  and  thick!" 

"Yes,  indeed'  -just  so.  my  dear;  but  Philips  must 
be  aoleep  as  he  does  not  answer  the  bell  and  so  I 
thought  I  would  let  you  out.  You  are  young  to 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  218 

walk  alone.     Shall  I  throw  a  shawl  over  my  cap, 
and  walk  down  the  road  with  you?" 

"Not  for  worlds,  my  dear  Miss  Mewlstone;"  but 
Phillis  was  quite  touched  at  this  unexpected  kind- 
ness. 

Miss  Mewlstone  did  not  look  sleepy  now;  her 
small  blue  eyes  were  wide  open,  and  her  round, 
placid  face  wore  a  most  kindly  expression,  and 
there  was  a  tremulous  movement  of  her  hands,  as 
though  they  were  feeling  after  something.  "It  is 
only  such  a  little  bit  of  road;  and,  though  the  trees 
make  it  dark,  I  am  not  the  least  afraid  of  going 
alone." 

"Ah!  just  so.  When  we  are  young  we  are  brave; 
it  is  the  old  who  are  afraid  of  the  grasshopper.  I 
like  )Tour  spirit,  my  dear;  and  so  does  she,  though 
she  is  a  little  taken  aback  and  disappointed;  but 
anything  that  interests  and  rouses  her  is  welcome. 
Even  this  may  do  her  good,  for  it  will  give  her 
something  to  think  about  besides  her  own  troubles. " 

"I  have  heard  of  her  troubles — "  began  Phillis; 
but  a  moving  door  arrested  Miss  Mewlstone's 
attention,  and  she  interrupted  her  hurriedly. 

"Ah!  there  is  Phillips  at  last.  Just  so;  you  shall 
hear  from  me  again.  It  is  a  gray  satin — one  of  her 
presents — but  I  have  never  had  it  made  up;  for 
what  is  the  use,  when  we  keep  no  company?"  went 
on  Miss  Mewlstone,  incoherently.  "Oh!  is  that 
you,  Phillips?  Please  go  with  this  young  lady  to 
the  lodge  gate.  You  shall  make  it  after  your  own 
fashion,"  she  whispered  in  Phillis's  ear;  "and  I  am 
not  as  particular  as  other  people.  There  is  Mag- 
dalene now.  Ah!  just  so.  Good-night,  my  dear; 
and  mind  the  scraper  by  the  gate. " 

Phillis  was  almost  sorry  when  the  obsequious 
Phillips  left  her;  for  the  road  certainly  looked  ter- 
ribly dark.  There  was  no  moon,  and  the  stars  chose 
to  be  invisible;  and  there  was  a  hot,  thundery  feel- 
ing in  the  air  that  suggested  a  storm.  And  she 
moved  aside  with  a  slight  sensation  of  uneasiness 


220  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

— not  fear,  of  course  not  fear — as  a  tall,  gloomy- 
looking  figure  bore  swiftly  down  on  her;  for,  even 
if  a  girl  DC  ever  so  brave,  a  very  tall  man  walking 
fast  on  a  dark  night,  with  a  slouching  hat  like  a 
conspirator's,  is  rather  a  terrifying  object;  and  how 
could  she  know  that  it  was  only  Archie  Drummond 
in  his  old  garden-hat,  taking  a  constitutional? 

But  he  brought  himself  up  in  front  of  her  with  a 
sudden  jerk. 

"Miss  Challoner — alone  at  this  time  of  night!" 

"Why,  it  is  not  ten;  and  1  could  not  wait  for 
Dorothy  to  fetch  me,"  returned  Phillis,  bound  to 
defend  herself,  and  quite  palpitating  with  relief, 
not  that  she  was  afraid — not  a  bit  of  it — but,  still, 
Mr.  Drummond's  presence  was  very  welcome. 

44 1  suppose  I  shall  do  as  well  as  Dorothy?"  he 
returned,  veering  round  with  the  greatest  ease,  just 
as  though  he  were  Dick,  and  boand  to  escort  a 
Challoner.  "Challoners*  Squire" — that  was  Dick's 
name  among  people. 

4<Oh,  poor  Dick!"  thought  Phillis,  with  a  sudden 
rush  of  tenderness  for  her  old  playmate;  and  then 
she  said,  demurely,  but  with  a  spice  of  malice: 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Drummond.  The  road  is  so 
gloomy  that  I  shall  be  glad  of  your  escort  this 
evening;  but  we  shall  have  to  do  without  that  sort 
of  thing  now,  for  our  business  may  often  bring  ur 
out  after  dark,  and  we  must  not  be  too  particular." 

"Oh,  this  must  not  be!"  he  returned,  decidedly; 
and,  though  it  was  too  dark  to  see  his  face,  she 
knew  by  his  voice  that  he  was  dreadfully  shocked. 
t4I  must  see  your  mother  and  talk  to  her  about  this, 
for  it  would  never  do  for  you  to  run  such  risks.  I 
could  not  allow  it  for  a  moment;  and,  as  your 
clergyman" — coming  down  from  his  high  hor^e, 
and  stammering  a  little — 44I  have  surely — surely  a 
right — "  But  Phillis  snapped  him  up  in  a  moment, 
and  pretty  sharply  too,  for  she  had  no  notion  of 
a  young  man  giving  himself  airs  and  lecturing  her. 

"Oh,  no  right  at  all!"  she  assured  him;  "clergy- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  221 

men  could  only  rebuke  evil-doers,  to  which  class 
she  and  her  sisters  did  not  belong,  thank  Heaven!" 
to  which  Mr.  Drummond  devoutly  said  an  "amen." 
"And  would  he  please  tell  her  if  dressmakers  were 
always  met  two  and  two,  like  the  animals  in  the 
ark?  and  how  would  it  sound  when  she  or  Nan  had 
been  fitting  on  a  dress,  on  a  winter's  evening,  if 
they  were  to  refuse  to  leave  the  house  until  Doro- 
thy fetched  them?  and  how — "  But  here  Mr. 
Drummond  checked  her,  and  the  darkness  hid  his 
smile. 

"Now  you  are  beyond  me,  Miss  Challoner.  In 
a  matter  of  detail,  a  man,  even  a  parson,  is  often  at 
fault.  Is  there  no  other  way  of  managing  this 
odious  business?  Forgive  me;  the  word  slipped 
out  by  accident.  Could  you  not  do  the  fitting,  or 
whatever  you  call  it,  by  daylight,  and  stay  at  home 
quietly  in  the  evening,  like  other  young  ladies?" 

"Of  course  not,"  returned  Phillis.  promptly.  She 
had  not  the  least  idea  why  it  could  not  be  done; 
indeed,  if  she  had  been  perfectly  cool — which  she 
was  not,  for  Mrs.  Cheyne  had  decidedly  stroked 
her  the  wrong  way,  and  ruffled  hsr  past  endurance 
—she  would  have  appreciated  the  temperate  counsel 
vouchsafed  her,  and  acquiesced  in  it  without  a 
murmur;  but  now  she  seemed  bent  on  contradic- 
tion. 

"Our  opinions  seem  to  clash  to-night,*J  returned 
Mr.  Drummond,  good-humoredly,  but  feeling  that 
the  young  lady  beside  him  had  decidedly  a  will  of 
her  own.  "She  is  very  nice,  but  she  is  not  as  gentle 
as  her  sister,"  he  said  to  himself,  wnich  was  hard 
on  Phillis,  who,  though  she  was  not  meek,  being  a 
girl  of  spirit,  was  wholesomely  sweet  and  sound  to 
the  heart's  core. 

"One  may  be  supposed  to  know  one's  business 
best,"  she  replied,  rather  dryly  to  this.  And  then, 
fearing  that  she  might  seem  ungracious  to  a 
stranger,  who  did  not  know  her  and  her  little  ways, 
she  went  on  in  a  more  cordial  tone:  "I  am  afraid 


222  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

you  think  me  a  little  cross  to-night;  but  I  have 
bjen  having  a  stand-up  fight,  and  am  rather  tired. 
Trying  to  battle  against  other  people's  prejudices 
makes  one  irritable.  And  then,  because  I  am  down 
and  out  of  heart  about  things,  our  clergyman  thinks 
fit  to  lecture  me  on  propriety." 

"Only  for  your  good.  You  must  forgive  me  if  I 
have  taken  too  much  upon  myself,"  returned  Mr. 
Drummond,  with  much  compunction.  "You  seem 
so  lonely — no  father  or  brother  at  least — pardon 
me — I  believe  you  have  no  brother?" 

4  Oh,  no;  we  have  no  brother,"  sighed  Phillis. 
Their  acquaintance  was  :'n  too  early  a  stage  to  war- 
rant her  in  bringing  in  Dili's  name.  Besides,  that 
sort  of  heterogeneous  relationship  is  so  easily  mis- 
construed. And  then  she  added:  "I  see.  You 
meant  to  be  very  kind,  and  I  was  very  ungrateful." 

"I  only  wish  I  could  find  some  way  of  helping  you 
all,"  was  his  reply  to  this.  But  it  was  said  with 
such  frank  kindness  that  Phillis's  brief  haughtiness 
vanished.  They  were  standing  at  the  gate  of  the 
Friary  by  this  time,  but  Mr.  Drummond  still 
lingered.  It  was  Phillis  who  dismissed  him. 

4 'Good-night,  and  many  thanks,"  she  said, brightly. 
"It  is  too  late  to  ask  you  in;  for,  you  see,  even 
dress-makers  have  their  notions  of  propriety."  And 
as  she  uttered  this  malicious  little  speech,  the  young 
man  broke  into  a  laugh  that  was  heard  by  Dorothy 
in  her  little  kitchen. 

"Oh,  that  is  too  bad  of  you,  Miss  Challoner,"  he 
said,  as  soon  as  he  recovered  himself;  but,  never- 
theless, he  liked  the  girl  better  for  her  little  joke. 

Mr.  Drummond's  constitutional  had  lasted  so  long 
that  Mattie  grew  quite  frightened,  and  came  down 
in  her  drab  dressing-gown  to  wait  for  him.  It  was 
not  a  becoming  costume,  but  it  was  warm  and  com- 
fortable; but  then,  Mattie  never  considered  what 
became  her.  If  any  one  had  admired  her,  or  cared 
how  she  looked  or  what  she  wore,  or  had  taken  an 
interest  in  her  for  her  own  sake,  she  would  doubt- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  223 

less  have  developed  an  honest  liking  for  pretty 
things.  But  what  did  it  matter  under  the  present 
circumstances?  Mr.  Drummond  was  lighting  his 
chamber  candle  when  Mattie  rushed  out  on  him — a 
grotesque  little  figure,  all  capes  and  frills. 

4<Oh,  Archie,  how  you  frightened  me!  Where 
have  you  been?*' 

Archie  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  this. 

"I  am  not  aware,  Matilda" — for  in  severe  moods 
he  would  call  her  by  her  full  name,  a  thing  she 
especially  disliked  from  him — "I  did  not  know  that 
I  was  accountable  to  you  for  my  actions.  Neither 
am  I  particularly  obliged  to  you  for  spying  upon 
me  in  this  way."  For  the  sight  of  Mattie  at  this 
time  of  night  was  particularly  distasteful.  Why  was 
he  to  be  watched  in  his  own  house? 

*4Oh,  dear,  Archie!  How  can  you  say  such 
things?  Spy  on  you,  indeed!  when  there  is  a  storm 
coming  up,  and  I  was  so  anxious." 

**I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  returned 
Archie,  ironically,  "but,  as  you  see  I  am  safe, 
don't  you  think  you  had  better  take  off  that  thing" 
— pointing  to  the  obnoxious  garment — "and  go  to 
bed?"  And  such  was  his  tone  that  poor  Mattie  fled 
without  a  word,  and  cried  a  little  in  her  dark  room, 
because  Archie  would  not  be  kind  to  her  and  let 
her  love  him,  but  was  always  finding  fault  with  one 
trifle  or  other.  To-night  it  was  her  poor  dressing- 
gown,  which  had  been  her  mother's,  and  had  been 
considered  good  enough  for  Mattie.  And  then  he 
had  called  her  a  spy.  And  here  she  gave  a  sob 
that  caught  Archie's  ears  as  he  passed  her  door. 

"Good-night,  you  little  goose!"  he  called  out,  for 
the  sound  made  him  uncomfortable;  and  though  the 
words  were  contemptuous,  the  voice  was  not,  and 
Mattie  at  once  dried  her  eyes  and  was  comforted. 

But  before  Archie  went  to  sleep  that  night  he 
made  up  his  mind  that  it  was  his  duty  as  a  clergy- 
man  and  a  Christian  to  look  over  Phillis's  willful- 
ness, and  to  befriend  to  the  utmost  of  hia  power 


224  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

the    stranger,   widow,   and   fatherless,   that  Provi- 
dence had  placed  at  his  very  gates. 

44 They  are  so  very  lonely,  poor  things!"  he  said 
to  himself;  "not  a  man  about  them.  By  the  bye, 
I  noticed  she  did  not  wear  an  engagement-ring." 
But  which  was  the  "she"  he  meant  was  an  enigma 
known  only  to  himself.  "Not  a  man  about  them!" 
he  repeated,  in  a  satisfied  manner,  for  as  yet  the 
name  of  Dick  had  not  sounded  in  his  ear. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

BREAKING    THE    PEACE. 

Nan  went  to  Beach  House  to  fetch  her  mother 
home,  escorted  by  Laddie,  who  was  growing  a 
most  rollicking  and  friendly  little  animal,  and  a 
great  consolation  to  his  mistress,  whom  he  loved 
with  all  his  doggish  heart. 

They  all  three  came  back  in  an  old  fly  belonging 
to  their  late  host,  and  found  Phillis  waiting  for 
them  on  the  doorstep,  who  made  her  mother  the 
following  little  speech: 

"Now,  mammie,  you  are  to  kiss  us,  and  tell  us 
what  good,  industrious  girls  we  have  been;  and 
then  you  are  to  shut  your  eyes  and  look  at  nothing, 
and  then  sit  down  in  your  old  arm-chair,  and  try 
to  make  the  best  of  everything." 

"Welcome  home,  dearest  mother,  '  said  Nan, 
softly  kissing  her.  "Home  is  home,  however  poor 
it  may  be:  and  thank  God  for  it,"  finished  the  girl, 
reverently. 

"Oh.  my  darlings!"  exclaimed  the  poor  mother; 
and  then  she  cried  a  little,  and  Dulce  came  up  and 
put  a  rose-bud  in  her  hand,  and  Dorothy  executed 
an  old-fashioned  courtesy,  and  hoped  that  her  mis- 
tress and  the  dear  young  ladies  would  try  and  make 
themselves  as  happy  as  possible. 

M Happy,  you  silly  old    Dorothy!  of  course  we 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  225 

mean  to  be  as  busy  as  bees,  and  as  frolicsome  as 
kittens!"  returned  Phillis,  who  had  recovered  her 
old  sprightliness,  and  was  ready  for  a  dozen  Mrs. 
Cheynes  and  all  the  clergy  of  the  diocese.  "Now, 
mammie,  you  are  only  to  peep  into  this  room.  This 
is  our  work-room,  and  those  are  the  curtains  Mr. 
Drummond  waskinci  enough  to  hang.  In  old  days," 
continued  Phillis,  with  mock  solemnity,  "the  par- 
son would  have  pronounced  a  benediction,  but  the 
modern  Anglican  performs  another  function,  and 
with  much  gravity  ascends  the  steps  and  hooks  up 
the  curtains  of  the  new-comers." 

"Oh,  Phillis,  how  can  you  be  so  absurd!  I  am 
sure  it  was  very  good-natured  of  him.  Come, 
mother,  dear,  we  will  not  stand  here  listening  to 
her  nonsense."  And  Nan  drew  her  mother  to  the 
parlor. 

it  was  a  very  small  room,  but  still  snug  and  com- 
fortable, and  full  of  pretty  things.  Tea  was  laid 
on  the  little  round  table  that  would  hardly  hold 
five,  as  Nan  once  observed,  thinking  of  Dick;  and 
the  evening's  sunshine  was  stealing  in,  but  not  too 
obtrusively.  Mrs  Challoner  tried  not  to  think  it 
dull,  and  endeavored  to  say  a  word  of  praise  at  the 
arrangements  Dulce  pointed  but  to  her;  but  the 
thought  of  Glen  Cottage,  and  her  pretty  drawing- 
room,  and  the  veranda  with  its  climbing  roses,  and 
the  shady  lawn  with  the  seat  under  the  acacia- 
trees,  almost  overpowered  her.  That  they  should 
come  to  this!  That  they  should  be  sitting  in  this 
mean  little  parlor,  where  there  was  hardly  room  to 
move,  looking  out  at  the  little  strip  ot  grass,  and 
the  medlar- tree,  and  the  empty  green-house!  Nan 
saw  her  mother's  lip  quiver,  and  adroitly  turned 
the  subject  to  their  neighbors.  She  had  so  much 
to  say  about  Mr.  Drummond  and  his  sister  that  Mrs. 
Challoner  grew  quite  interested;  nevertheless,  it 
was  a  surprise  even  to  Nan  when  Dorothy  pres- 
ently opened  the  door,  and  Mr,  Drummond  coolly 

15  Girls. 


226  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

walked  in,  with  a  magnif  cent  basket  of  roses  in  his 
hand. 

Nan  gravely  introduced  him  to  her  mother,  and 
the  young  man  accosted  her;  but  there  was  a  little 
surprise  on  his  face.  He  had  taken  it  into  his  head 
that  Mrs.  Challoner  would  be  a  far  older-looking  and 
more  homely  person;  but  the  stately  looking 
woman  before  him  might  have  been  an  older  and 
faded  edition  of  Nan.  Somehow,  her  appearance 
confused  him,  and  he  commenced  with  an  apology 
for  his  intrusion  : 

"I  ought  not  to  have  been  so  unceremonious.  I 
am  afraid,  as  you  have  just  arrived,  my  visit  will 
seem  an  intrusion;  but  my  sister  thought  you  would 
like  some  of  our  roses" — he  had  obliged  poor  Mattie 
to  say  so — "and,  as  we  had  cut  some  fine  ones,  we 
thought  you  ought  to  have  them  while  they  are 
fresh/' 

4 'Thank  you;  this  is  very  kind  and  neighborly/* 
returned  Mrs.  Challoner;  but,  though  her  tone  was 
perfectly  civil,  Nan  thought  her  manner  a  little 
cold,  and  hastened  to  interpose  with  a  few  glowing 
words  of  admiration. 

44 The  roses  are  lovely;  they  were  finer  than  those 
at  Longmead.  or  even  at  Fitzroy  Lodge,  though 
Lady  Fitzroy  prided  herself  on  her  roses."  Archie 
pricked  up  his  ears  at  this  latter  name,  which 
escaped  quite  involuntarily  from  Nan.  "And  was 
it  not  good  of  Miss  Drummond  to  spare  them  so 
many,  and  of  Mr.  Drummond  to  carry  them?"  all 
of  which  Nan  said  with  a  sweet  graciousness  that 
healed  the  young  man's  embarrassment  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

"Yes,  indeed!"  echoed  Mrs.  Challoner,  obedient, 
as  usual,  to  her  daughter's  lead.  "And  you  must 
thank  your  sister,  Mr.  Drummond,  and  tell  her 
how  fond  my  girls  are  of  flowers."  But  though 
Mrs.  Challoner  said  this,  the  roses  were  not  without 
thorns  for  her.  Why  had  not  Miss  Drummond 
brought  them  herself?  She  was  pleased  indeed 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  227 

that,  under  existing  circumstances,  any  one  should 
be  civil  to  her  girls,  but  was  there  not  a  little  pa- 
tronage intended?  She  was  not  quite  sure  that  she 
rejoiced  in  having  such  neighbors.  Mr.  Drummond 
was  nice  and  gentlemanly,  but  he  was  far  too  young 
and  handsome  for  an  unmarried  clergyman;  at 
least,  that  was  her  old-fashioned  opinion;  and  when 
one  has  three  very  good-looking  daughters,  and 
dreads  the  idea  of  losing  one,  one  may  be  pardoned 
for  distrusting  even  a  basket  of  roses. 

If  Mr.  Drummond  perceived  her  slight  coldness, 
he  seemed  quite  determined  to  overcome  it.  He 
took  small  notice  of  Nan,  who  busied  herself  at  once 
arranging  the  flowers  under  his  eyes;  even  Phillis, 
who  looked  good  and  demure  this  evening,  failed 
to  obtain  a  word.  He  talked  almost  exclusively  to 
Mrs.  Challoner,  plying  her  with  artful  questions 
about  their  old  home,  which  he  now  learned  was  at 
Oldfield,  and  gaining  scraps  of  information  that- 
enabled  him  to  obtain  a  pretty  clear  insight  into 
their  present  circumstances. 

Mrs.  Challoner,  who  was  a  soft-hearted  woman, 
was  not  proof  against  so  much  sympathy.  She 
perceived  that  Mr.  Drummond  was  sorry  for  them, 
and  she  began  to  warm  a  little  toward  him.  His 
manner  was  so  respectful,  his  words  so  discreet;  and 
then  he  behaved  so  nicely,  taking  no  notice  of  the 
girls,  though  Nan  was  looking  so  pretty,  but  just 
talking  to  her  in  a  grave,  responsible  way,  as 
though  he  were  a  gray-haired  man  of  sixty. 

Phillis  was  not  quite  sure  she  approved  of  it.  In 
the  old  days  she  had  never  been  so  excluded  from 
conversation ;  she  would  have  liked  a  word  now  and 
then.  But  Nan  sat  by  quite  contented;  it  pleased 
her  to  see  her  mother  roused  and  interested. 

When  Mr.  Drummond  took  his  leave,  she  accom- 
panied him  to  the  door,  and  thanked  him  quite 
warmly. 

"You  have  done  her  so  much  good,  for  this  first 
evening  is  such  a  trial  to  her,  poor  thing!"  said 


228  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Nan,  lifting  her  lovely  eyes  to  the  young  man's 
face. 

44 1  am  so  glad!  I  will  come  again,"  he  said, 
rattier  incoherently.  And  as  he  went  out  of  the 
green  door  he  told  himself  that  it  was  his  clear  duty 
to  befriend  this  interesting  family.  He  ought  to 
have  gone  home  and  written  to  Grace,  for  it  was 
long  past  the  time  when  she  always  expected  to 
hear  from  him.  But  the  last  day  or  two  he  had 
rather  shirked  this  duty.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
explain  to  Grace.  She  might  be  rather  shocked, 
for  she  was  a  little  prim  in  such  things,  being  her 
mother's  daughter.  He  thought  he  would  ask 
Mattie  to  tell  her  about  the  Challoners,  and  that  he 
was  busy  and  would  write  soon ;  and  when  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  this,  he  went  down  to  the  sea- 
shore and  amused  himself  by  sitting  on  a  breakwater 
and  staring  at  the  fishing  smacks — which,  of  course, 
showed  how  very  busy  he  was. 

"I  think  I  shall  like  Mr.  Drummed, "  observed 
Mrs.  Challoner,  in  a  tolerant  tone,  when  Nan  had 
accompanied  the  young  vicar  to  the  door.  "He 
seems  an  earnest,  good  sort  of  young  man." 

44  Yes,  mammie,  dear.  And  I  am  sure  he  has 
fallen  in  love  with  you,"  returned  Phillis,  naught- 
ily, 44for  he  talked  to  no  one  else.  And  you  are  so 
young  looking  and  pretty  that,  of  course,  no  one 
could"  be  surprised  if  he  did."  But  though  Mrs. 
Challoner  said,  44Oh,  Phillis!"  and  looked  dread- 
fully shocked  in  a  proper,  matronly  way,  what  was 
the  use  of  that,  when  the  mischievous  girl  burst 
out  laughing  in  her  face. 

But  the  interruption  had  done  them  all  good,  and 
the  evening  passed  less  heavily  than  they  had  dared 
to  hope.  And  when  Mrs.  Challoner  complained  of 
fatigue  and  retired  early,  escorted  by  Dorothy,  who 
was  dying  for  a  chat  with  her  mistress,  the  three 
girls  went  out  in  the  garden  and  walked,  after  their 
old  fashion,  arm  in  arm  up  and  down  the  lawn, 
with-Nan  in  the  middle;  though  Dulce  pouted  and 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  229 

pretended  that  the  lawn  was  too  narrow,  and  that 
Phillis  was  pushing  her  on  the  gravel  path. 

Their  mother's  window  was  open,  and  they  could 
have  heard  snatches  of  Dorothy's  conversation  if 
they  had  chosen  to  listen.  Dulce  stood  still  a 
moment,  and  wafted  a  little  kiss  toward  her 
mother's  room. 

44  Dear  old  mamsie!  She  has  been  very  good  this 
evening,  has  she  not,  Nan?  She  has  only  cried  the 
least  wee  bit,  when  you  kissed  her." 

44 Yes,  indeed!  and  somebody  else  has  been  good, 
too.  What  do  you  say,  Phillis?  Has  not  Dulce 
been  the  best  child  possible?" 

"Oh,  Nan,  I  should  be  ashamed  to  be  otherwise," 
returned  Dulce,  in  such  an  earnest  manner  that  it 
made  her  sisters  laugh.  "Do  you  think  I  could  see 
you  both  so  good  and  cheerful,  making  the  best  of 
things,  and  never  complaining,  even  when  the 
tears  are  in  your  eyes — as  yours  are  often,  Nan, 
when  you  think  no  one  is  looking — and  not  try  and 
copy  your  example?  I  am  dreadfully  proud  of  you 
both — that  is  what  I  am,"  continued  the  warm- 
hearted girl.  "I  never  knew  before  what  was  in  my 
sisters.  And  now  I  feel  as  though  I  want  the  whole 
world  to  come  and  admire  my  Phillis  and  Nan!" 

"Little  flatterer!"  but  Nan  squeezed  Dulce's  arm 
affectionately. 

And  Phillis  said,  in  a  joking  tone : 

"Ah,  it  was  not  half  so  bad.  This  evening  there 
was  mother  looking  so  dear  and  pretty,  and  there 
were  you  girls;  and,  though  the  nest  is  small,  it 
feels  warm  and  cozy.  And  if  we  could  only  forget 
Glen  Cottage,  and  leave  off  missing  the  old  faces, 
which  I  never  shall — "  ("Nor  I,"  echoed  Nan, 
with  a  deep  sigh,  fetched  from  somewhere) — "and 
root  ourselves  afresh,  we  should  contrive  not  to  be* 
unhappy." 

"I  think  it  is  our  duty  to  cultivate  cheerfulness," 
added  Nan,  seriously ;  and  after  this  they  fell  to  a 
discussion  on  ways  and  means.  As  usual.  Phillis 


230  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

was  chief  spokeswoman,  but  to  Nan  belonged  the 
privilege  of  the  deciding  vote. 

The  next  few  days  were  weary  ones  to  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner;  there  was  still  much  to  be  done  before  the 
Friary  could  be  pronounced  in  order.  The  girls 
spent  most  of  the  daylight  hours  unpacking  boxes, 
sorting  and  arranging  their  treasures,  and,  if  the 
truth  must  be  told,  helping  Dorothy  to  polish  furni- 
ture and  wash  glass  and  china. 

Mrs.  Challoner,  who  was  not  strong  enough  for 
these  household  labors,  found  herself  condemned 
to  hem  new  dusters  and  mend  old  table-linen,  to 
the  tune  of  her  own  sad  thoughts.  Mr.  Drummond 
found  her  sorting  a  little  heap  on  the  parlor  table 
when  he  dropped  in  casually  one  morning — this 
time  with  some  very  fine  cherries  that  his  sister 
thought  Mrs.  Challoner  would  enjoy. 

When  Mr.  Drummond  began  his  little  speech,  he 
could  have  sworn  that  there  were  tears  on  the  poor 
lady's  cheeks;  but  when  he  had  finished  she  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  smile,  and  thanked  him  warmly, 
and  then  they  had  quite  a  nice  chat  together. 

Mr.  Drummond's  visit  was  quite  a  godsend,  she 
told  him,  for  her  girls  were  busy  and  had  no  time 
to  talk  to  her;  and  "one's  thoughts  are  not  always 
pleasant  companions,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh. 
And  Mr.  Drummond,  who  had  caught  sight  of  the 
tears,  was  at  once  sympathetic,  and  expressed  him- 
self in  such  feeling  terms- — for  he  was  more  at  ease 
in  the  girls'  absence — that  Mrs,  Challoner  opened 
out  in  the  most  confiding  way,  and  told  him  a  great 
deal  that  he  had  been  anxious  to  learn. 

But  she  found  out,  to  her  dismay,  that  he  disap- 
proved of  her  girls'  plans,  for  he  told  her  so  al 
once,  and  in  the  coolest  manner.  The  opportunity 
for  airing  his  views  on  the  subject  was  far  too  good 
to  be  lost.  Mrs.  Challoner  was  alone;  she  was  in  a 
low.dejected  mood;the  rulers  of  the  household  were 
gathered  in  an  upper  chamber.  What  would  Phillis 
have  said  as  she  warbled  a  rather  flat  accompani- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  231 

ment  to  Nan's  4l  Bonnie  Dundee,"  which  she  was 
singing  to  keep  up  their  spirits  over  a  piece  of  hard 
work^  if  she  had  known  that  Mr.  Drummond  was 
at  that  moment  in  possession  of  her  mothers  ear? 

iwOh?  Mr  Drummond,  this  is  very  sad,  if  every 
one  should  think  as  you  do  :;bout  my  poor  girls! 
and  Phillis  does  so  object  to  being  called  romantic;" 
for  he  had  hinted  in  a  gentlemanly  way  that  he 
thought  the  whole  scheme  was  crude  and  girlish  and 
quixotic  to  a  degree. 

44 1  hope  you  will  not  tell  her,  then,"  returned  Mr. 
Drummond,  in  a  soothing  tone,  for  Mrs.  Challoner 
was  beginning  to  look  agitated.  44I  am  afraid  noth- 
ing I  say  will  induce  Miss  Challoner  to  give  up  her 
pet  scheme;  but  I  felt,  as  your  clergyman,  it  was 
my  duty  to  let  you  know  my  opinion."  And  here 
Archie  looked  so  very  solemn  that  Mrs.  Challoner, 
being  a  weak  woman,  and  apt  to  overvalue  the  least 
expression  of  masculine  opinion,  grew  more  and 
more  alarmed. 

44 Oh,  yes!"  she  faltered:  "it  is  very  good— very 
nice  of  you  to  tell  me  this."  Phillis  would  have 
laughed  in  his  face,  and  Mrs.  Cheyne  would  have 
found  something  to  say  about  his  youth;  but  in 
Mrs.  Challoner's  eyes,  though  she  was  an  older 
woman,  Archie's  solemnity  and  Oriental  beard 
carried  tremendous  weight  with  them.  He  might 
be  young,  nevertheless,  she  was  bound  to  listen 
meekly  to  him,  and  to  respect  his  counsel  as  one 
who  had  a  certain  authority  over  her.  44Oh,  you 
are  so  very  good!  and  if  only  my  girls  had  not  made 
up  their  minds  so  quickly!  but  now  what  can  I  do 
but  feel  very  uncomfortable  after  you  have  told  me 
this!" 

44  Oh,  as  to  that,  there  is  always  time  for  every- 
thing; it  is  never  too  late  to  mend,"  returned  Mr. 
Drummond,  tritely.  <4I  meant  from  the  first  to  tell 
you  what  I  thought,  if  I  should  ever  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  to  you  alone.  You  see,  we 
Oxford  men  have  our  own  notions  about  things; 


232  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

we  do  not  always  go  with  the  tide.  If  your 
daughters" — here  he  hesitated  and  grew  red,  for  he 
was  a  modest,  honest  young  fellow  in  the  main — 
"pardon  me,  but  I  am  only  proposing  an  hypothesis 
— if  they  wanted  to  make  a  sensation  and  get  them- 
selves talked  about,  no  doubt  they  would  achieve  a 
success,  for  the  novelty — "  But  here  he  stopped, 
reduced  to  silence  by  the  shocked  expression  of 
Mrs.  Challoner's  face. 

44 Mr.  Drummond!  my  girls — make  a  sensation — 
be  talked  about!"  she  gasped;  and  all  the  spirit  of 
her  virtuous  matronhood,  and  all  the  instinctive 
feeling  that  years  of  culture  and  ingrained  refine- 
ment of  nature  had  engendered,  shone  in  her  eyes. 
Her  Nan  and  Phillis  and  Dulce  to  draw  this  on 
themselves! 

Now,  at  this  unlucky  moment,  when  the  maternal 
fires  were  all  alight,  who  should  enter  but  Phillis, 
wanting  "pins,  and  dozens  of  them  —  quickly, 
please,"  and  still  warbling  flatly  that  refrain  of 
"Bonnie  Dundee." 

"Oh,  Phillis!  oh,  my  darling  child!"  cried  Mrs. 
Challoner.  quite  hysterically,  "do  you  know  what 
your  clergyman  says?  and  if  he  should  say  such 
things,  what  will  be  the  world's  opinion?  No,  Mr. 
Drummond,  I  did  not  mean  to  be  angry.  Of 
course,  you  are  telling  us  this  for  our  good;  but  I 
do  not  know  when  I  have  been  so  shocked." 

"Why,  what  is  this?"  demanded  Phillis,  calmly; 
but  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  unlucky  clergyman, 
who  began  to  wish  that  that  last  speech  had  not 
been  uttered. 

"He  says  it  is  to  make  a  sensation — to  be  talked 
about — that  you  are  going  to  do  this,"  gasped  Mrs. 
Challoner,  who  was  far  too  much  upset  to  weigh 
words  truly. 

"What!"  Phillis  only  uttered  that  very  unmean- 
ing monosyllable;  nevertheless,  Archie  jumped 
from  his  seat  as  though  he  had  been  shot. 

"Mrs.  Challoner,  really  this  is  too  bad!     No,  you 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  238 

must  allow  me  to  explain/'  as  Phillis  turned  aside 
with  a  curling  lip,  as  though  she  would  leave  them. 
He  actually  went  between  her  and  the  door,  as 
though  he  meant  to  prevent  her  egress  forcibly. 
There  is  no  knowing  to  what  lengths  he  would 
have  gone  in  his  sudden  agitation.  44Only  wait  a 
moment  until  I  explain  myself.  Your  mother  has 
misunderstood  me  altogether.  Never  has  such  a 
thought  entered  my  mind!" 

44 Oh,"  observed  Phillis.  But  now  she  stood  still 
and  began  to  collect  her  pins  out  of  her  mother's 
basket.  *4  Perhaps,  as  this  is  rather  unpleasant, 
you  will  have  the  kindness  to  tell  me  what  it  was 
you  said  to  my  mother?"  And  she  spoke  like  a 
young  princess  who  had  just  received  an  insult. 

44 1  desire  nothing  more,"  returned  Archie,  deter- 
mined to  defend  himself  at  all  costs.  44I  had  been 
speaking  to  Mrs.  Challoner  about  all  this  unfortunate 
business.  She  was  good  enough  to  repose  confi- 
dence in  me,  and,  as  your  clergyman,  I  felt  myself 
bound  to  tell  her  exactly  my  opinions  on  the 
subject." 

"I  do  not  quite  see  the  necessity ;  but  no  doubt 
you  know  best,"  was  Phillis*  somewhat  sarcastic 
answer. 

44 At  least,  1  did  it  for  the  best,"  returned  the 
young  man,  humbly.  44I  pointed  out  things  to  Mrs. 
Challoner,  as  1  told  you  I  should.  I  warned  her 
what  the  world  would  say — that  it  would  regard 
your  plan  as  very  singular  and  perhaps  quixotic. 
Surely  there  is  nothing  in  this  to  offend  you. " 

4*You  have  not  touched  on  the  worst  part  of  all," 
returned  Phillis,  with  a  little  disdain  in  her  voice. 
44About  making  a  sensation,  I  mean." 

4 'There  it  was  that  your  mother  so  entirely  mis- 
understood me.  What  I  said  was  this:  If  this 
dressmaking  scheme  was  undertaken  just  to  make  a 
sensation,  it  would,  of  course,  achieve  success,  for  I 
thought  the  novelty  might  take  And  then  I  added 
that  I  was  merely  stating- an  hypothesis  by  way  of 

16  Other  Girls 


2S4  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

argument;  and  then  Mrs.  Challoner  looked  shocked, 
and  you  came  in. ' ' 

44  Is  that  all?'.'  asked  Phillis,  coming  down  from 
her  stilts  at  once,  for  she  knew  of  old  how  her 
mother  would  confuse  things  sometimes;  and,  if 
this  were  the  truth,  she,  Phillis,  had  been  rather 
too  hard  on  him. 

44  Yes.  Do  you  see  now  any  necessity  of  quarrel- 
ing with  me?"  returned  Mr.  Drummond,  breathing 
a  little  more  freely  as  the  frown  lessened  on  Phillis' 
face.  He  wanted  to  be  friends  with  these  girls, 
not  to  turn  them  against  him. 

44Well,  no,  I  believe  not,"  she  answered,  quite 
gravely.  *4And  I  am  sure  I  beg  your  pardon  if  I 
was  rude."  But  this  Archie  would  not  allow  for  a 
moment. 

44  But,  Mr.  Drummond,  one  word  before  peace  is 
quite  restored,"  went  on  Phillis,  with  something  of 
her  old  archness,  "or  else  I  will  fetch  my  sisters, 
and  you  will  have  the  three  of  us  against  you." 

*4Oh,  do,  Phillis,  my  dear,"  interrupted  her 
mother;  44let  them  come  and  hear  what  Mr.  Drum- 
mond thinks." 

"Mammie,  how  dare  you — how  dare  you  be  so 
contumacious,  after  all  the  trouble  we  have  taken  to 
set  your  dear,  fidgety  mind  at  rest?  Just  look  what 
you  have  done,  Mr.  Drummond,"  turning  upon 
him.  44Now  I  am  not  going  to  forgive  you,  and  we 
will  not  trust  the  mother  out  of  our  sight,  unless  you 
promise  not  to  say  these  sort  of  things  to  her  when 
we  are  not  here  to  answer  them." 

44 But,  Miss  Challoner,  my  pastoral  conscience," 
but  his  eyes  twinkled  a  little. 

44Oh,  never  mind  that!"  she  retorted,  mischiev- 
ously. 4*I  will,  give  you  leave  to  lecture  us  collect- 
ively, but  not  individually;  that  must  not  be 
thought  about  for  a  moment."  She  had  not  a 
notion  what  the  queer  exr^r>scion  on  Mr  Drum- 
mond's  face  meant  ancl  ic  .;id  not  know  himself, 
but  he  had  the  strongest  desire  to  laugh  at  this. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

They  parted  after  this  the  best  o 
Phillis  tasted  the  cherries,  and  pronounced  them 
very  good. 

"You  have  quite  forgiven  me?"  Mr.  Drummond 
said,  as  she  accompanied  him  to  the  door  before 
rejoining  her  sisters.  "You  know  I  have  promised 
not  to  do  it  again  until  the  next  time/' 

"Oh,  we  shall  see  about  that!"  returned  Phillis, 
good-humoredly.  "Forewarned  is  forearmed,  and 
there  is  a  triple  alliance  against  you." 

"Good  heavens,  what  mockery  it  seems!  1  never 
saw  such  girls — never!"  thought  Mr.  Drummond, 
as  he  took  long  strides  down  the  road.  "But  Mattie 
is  right;  they  mean  business,  and  nothing  in  the 
world  could  change  that  girl's  determination  if  she 
had  set  herself  to  carry  a  thing  out.  I  never  knew 
a  stronger  will."  And  in  this  he  was  tolerably 
right. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


"TRIMMINGS,  NOT 

The  longest  week  must  have  an  end  ;  and  so,  at 
last,  the  eventful  Monday  morning  arrived—  *  Black 
Monday,"  as  Dulce  called  it,  and  then  sighed  as.  she 
looked  out  on  the  sunshine  and  the  waving  trees, 
and  thought  how  delicious  a  long  walk  or  a  game  of 
tennis  would  be,  instead  of  stitch,  stitch,  stitching 
all  day.  But  Dulce  was  an  unselfish  little  soul,  and 
kept  all  these  thoughts  to  herself,  and  dressed  her- 
self quickly;  for  she  had  overslept  herself,  and 
Phillis  had  long  been  downstairs. 

Nan  was  locking  up  the  tea-caddy  as  she  entered 
the  parlor,  and  Phillis  was  standing  by  the  table, 
drawing  on  her  gloves,  and  her  lips  were  twitching 
a  little  —  a  way  they  had  when  Phillis  was  nervous 

Nan  went  up  and  kissed  her  and  gave  her  an 
encouraging  pat. 

"This  is  for  luck,  my  dear;  and  mind  you  make 


23*  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

th^  best /of  poor  Miss  Milner's  dampy,  roundabout 
little  figure.  There.  I  have  put  the  body-lining, 
and  the  measuring- tape  and  a  paper  of  pins  in  this 
little  black  bag;  and  1  have  not  forgotten  the  scis- 
sors— oh,  dear,  no!  I  have  not  forgotten  the 
scissors,"  went  on  Nan,  with  such  surprising  cheer- 
fulness that  Phillis  saw  through  it,  and  was  down 
on  her  in  a  moment: 

"No,  Nan:  there!  I  declare  I  will  not  be  such 
a  goose.  I  am  not  nervous,  not  one  bit;  it  is  pure 
fun,  that's  what  it  is.  Dulce,  what  a  naughty  child 
you  are  to  oversleep  yourself  this  morning,  and  1 
had  not  the  heart  to  wake  you,  you  looked  so  like  a 
baby;  and  we  never  wake  babies  because  they  are 
sure  to  squall!" 

"Oh,  Phil,  are  you  going  to  Miss  Milner's?  I 
would  have  walked  with  you  if  I  had  had  my 
breakfast:  but  I  am  so  hungry." 

44 1  could  not  possibly  wait,"  returned  Phillis, 
4 'punctuality  is  one  of  the  first  duties  of — hem — 
dressmakers;  all  orders  executed  promptly,  and 
promises  performed  with  undeviating  regularity; 
those  are  my  maxims.  Eat  a  good  breakfast,  and 
then. -see; if  mammie  .wants  any  help,  for  Nan  must 
be  , ready  for  me  at  the  work-table,  for  she  is  our 
head  cutter-out."  And  then  Phillis  nodded  briskly 
and.  walked  away. 

By  a  singular  chance;  Mr.  Drummond  was  water- 
ing  his  ferns  in  the  front  court  as  Phillis  passed,  and 
in  spite  of  her  reluctance,  for  somehow  he  was  the 
last  person  she  wanted  to  encounter  that  day,  she 
was  obliged  to  wish  him  good-morning. 

** Good-morning!  Yes,  indeed,  it  is  a  glorious 
morning,"  observed  Archie,  brightly.  "And  may 
I  ask  where  you  are  going  so  early?" 

44 Only  to  the  library,"  returned  Phillis,  laconic- 
ally; but  the  color  mounted  to  her  forehead.  44We 
begin  business  to-day. '  * 

And  then  Archie  took  up  his  watering-pot,  and 
refrained  from  any  more  questions.  It  was  absurd, 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  '237 

perhaps,  but  at  the  moment  he  had  forgotten,  and 

the  remembrance  was  not  pleasing. 

Phillis  felt  quite  brave  after  this,  and  walked  into 
the  library  as  though  the  place  belonged  to  her. 
When  it  came  to  details,  Miss  Milner  was  far  more 
nervous  than  she. 

She  would  keep  apologizing  to  Phillis  for  making 
her  stand  so  long,  and  she  wanted  to  hold  the  pins 
and  to  pick  up  the  scissors  that  Phillis  had  dropped; 
and  when  the  young  dressmaker  consulted  her 
about  the  trimmings,  she  was  far  too  humble  to 
obtrude  her  opinions. 

"Anyhing  you  think  best,  Miss  Challoner,  for  you 
have  such  beautiful  taste  as  never  was  seen;  and  I 
am  sure  the  way  you  have  fitted  that  body-lining  is 
just  wonderful,  and  would  be  a  lesson  to  Miss 
Slasher  for  life.  No,  don't  put  the  pins  in  your 
mouth,  there's  a  dear." 

For,  in  her  intense  seal,  Phillis  had  thought  her- 
self bound  to  follow  the  manners  of  Mr&  Sloper, 
the  village  factotum,  and  she  always  did  so,  though 
Nan  afterward  assured  her  that  it  was  not  neces- 
sary, and  that  in  this  particular  they  might  be 
allowed  to  deviate  from  example. 

But  she  was  quite  proud  of  herself  when  she  had 
finished,  for  the  material  seemed  to  mold  under  her 
fingers  in  the  most  marvelous  way,  and  she  knew 
the  fit  would  be  perfect.  She  wanted  to  rush  off  at 
once  and  set  to  work  with  Nan;  but  Miss  Milner 
would  not  let  her  off  so  easily.  There  was  orange 
wine  and  seed-cake  of  her  own  making  in  the  back 
parlor,  and  she  had  just  one  question — a  very  little 
question — to  ask.  And  here  Miss  Milner  coughed 
a  little  behind  her  hand  to  gain  time  and  recover 
her  courage. 

"The  little  papers  were  about  the  "shop,  kind;  Mrs. 
Trimmings  saw  one,  and— and---0  Here  PKillis 
came  promptly  to  her  relief. 

44 And  Mrs.  Trimmings  wants  to  cmtera  clrfeis, 


288  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

does  she?"     And  Phillis  bravely  kept  down  the  sud- 
den sinking  of  heart  at  the  news. 

Mrs.  Trimmings  was  the  butcher's  wife — the  sister 
of  that  very  Mrs.  Squails  of  whom  Duice  once  made 
mention — well  known  to  be  the  dressiest  woman 
in  Hadleigh,  who  was  much  given  to  imitate  her 
betters.  The  newest  fashions,  the  best  materials, 
were  always  to  be  found  on  Mrs.  Trimmings's  portly 
figure. 

"What  could  I  do?'*  observed  Miss  Milner,  apolo- 
getically. "The  papers  were  about  the  shop,  and 
what  does  the  woman  do  but  take  one  up?  *I  won- 
der what  sort  of  dress-makers  these  are?'  she  said, 
careless-like.  *  There  is  my  new  blue  silk  that 
Andrew  brought  himself  from  London,  and  paid 
five-and-sixpence  a  yard  for  in  St.  Paul's  Church- 
yard; and  I  daren't  let  Miss  Slasher  have  it,  for  she 
made  such  a  mess  of  that  French  merino.  She  had 
to  let  it  out  at  every  seam  before  I  could  get  into 
it,  and  it  is  so  tight  for  me  now  that  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  cut  it  up  for  Mary  Anne.  1  wonder  if  I 
dare  try  these  new  people?'  ' 

"And  what  did  you  say,  Miss  Milner?" 

44  What  could  I  do  then,  my  dear  young  lady,  but 
speak  up  and  say  the  best  I  could  for  you?  for 
though  Mrs.  Trimmings  is  not  high — not  one  of  the 
gentry,  I  mean — and  has  a  rough  tongue  sometimes, 
still  she  knows  what  good  stuff  and  good  cutting- 
out  means;  and  a  word  from  her  might  do  you  a 
power  of  good  among  the  town-folks,  for  her  gowns 
are  always  after  the  best  patterns. " 

"All  right!"  returned  Phillis,  cheerfully;  "one 
must  creep  before  one  runs,  and,  until  the  gentry 
employ  us,  we  ought  to  think  ourselves  fortunate  to 
work  for  the  town-people.  I  am  not  a  bit  above 
making  a  dress  for  Mrs.  Trimmings,  though  I 
would  rather  make  one  for  you,  Miss  Milner,  be- 
cause you  have  been  so  kind  to  us." 

"there,  now!  didn't  I  say  there  never  were  st&ch 
young  ladies?"  exclaimed  Miss  Milner,  cyiite 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  239 

affected  at  this.  "Well,  if  you  are  sure  you  don't 
mind,  Miss  Challoner,  dear,  will  you  please  go  to 
Mrs.  Trimmings  this  morning?  for  though  I  told  her 
my  dress  was  to  be  finished  first,  still  Trimmings's 
isn't  a  stone's-throw  from  here;  and  you  may  as 
well  settle  a  thing  when  you  are  about  it." 

44  And  I  will  take  the  silk,  Miss  Milner,  if  you  will 
kindly  let  me  have  a  nice  piece  of  brown  paper." 

"Indeed,  and  you  will  do  no  such  thing,  Miss 
Challoner;  and  there  is  Joseph  going  down  with  the 
papers  to  Mr.  Drummond's,  and  will  leave  it  at  the 
Friary  as  he  passes. ' ' 

"Oh,  thank  you/'  observed  Phillis,.  gratefully. 
"Then  I  will  pencil  a  word  to  my  sister,  to  let  her 
know  why  I  am  detained."  And  she  scrawled  a 
line  to  Nan : 

"Trimmings,  not  Squalls.  Here  beginneth  the 
first  chapter.  Expect  me  when  you  see  me,  and  do 
nothing  until  I  come." 

There  was  no  side  door  at  Trimmings's,  and  Mrs. 
Trimmings  was  at  the  desk,  jotting  down  legs  of 
mutton,  and  entries  of  gravy  beef  and  suet,  with 
a  rapidity  that  would  have  tried  the  brain  of  any 
other  woman  than  a  butcher's  wife. 

When  Phillis  approached,  she  looked  up  at  her 
suavely,  expecting  custom. 

"Just  half  a  moment,  ma'am,"  she  said,  civilly. 
"Yes,  Joe,  wing-rib  and  half  of  suet  to  Mrs.  Pen- 
fold,  and  a  loin  of  lamb  and  sweet-bread  for  No.  12 
Albert  Terrace.  Now,  ma'am,  what  can  I  do  for 
you?" 

"I  have  only  come  about  your  dress,  Mrs.  Trim- 
mings," returned  Phillis,  in  a  very  small  voice; 
ami  .then  she  tried  not  to  laugh,  as  Mrs.  Trimmings 
regarded,  her  with  a  broad  stare  of  astonishment, 
which  took  her  in  comprehensively,  hat,  dress,  and 
rieat4bg-skjn  gloves. 

"You  might  have  taken  up  a  pen  and  knocked  me 
down  with  it,"  was  Mrs.  Trimmings's  graphic  de- 
of  her  feelings  afterwards,  as  she  carveci  a 


240  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

remarkably  fine  loin  of  veal,  with  a  knuckle  of  ham 
and  some  kidney-beans  to  go  with  it.  "There  was 
the  colonel  standing  by  the  desk,  Andrew;  and  he 
turned  right  round  and  looked  at  us  both.  'I've 
come  about  your  dress,  Mrs.  Trimmings,'  she  said, 
as  pert-like  as  possible.  Law!  I  thought  I  should 
have  dropped,  and  I  was  that  taken  aback." 

Phillis's  feelings  were  not  of  the  pleasantest  when 
Colonel  Middleton  turned  round  and  looked  at  her. 
There  was  an  expression  almost  of  sorrow  in  the 
old  man's  eyes  as  he  so  regarded  her,  which  made 
her  feel  hot  and  uncomfortable.  It  was  a  relief 
when  Mrs.  Trimmings  roused  from  her  stupefaction 
and  bustled  out  of  the  desk. 

"This  way,  miss,"'  she  said,  with  a  jerk  of  her 
comely  head.  But  her  tone  changed  a  little,  and 
became  at  once  sharp  and  familiar.  "I  hope  you 
understand  your  business,  for  I  never  could  abide 
waste ;  and  the  way  Miss  Slasher  cut  into  that  gray 
merino — and  it  only  just  meets,  so  to  say — and  the 
breadths  are  as  scanty  as  possible ;  and  it  would  go 
to  my  heart  to  have  a  beautiful  piece  of  silk 
spoiled,  five-and-sixpence  a  yard,  and  not  a  flaw  in 
it." 

"If  I  thought  I  should  spoil  your  dress  I  would 
not  undertake  it,"  returned  Phillis,  gently.  She 
felt  she  must  keep  herself  perfectly  quiet  with  this 
sort  of  people.  "My  sister  and  I  have  just  made 
up  some  very  pretty  silk  and  cashmere  costumes, 
and  they  fitted  as  perfectly  as  possible." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  observed  Mrs.  Trimmings,  in  a 
patronizing  tone.  She  had  no  idea  that  the  cos- 
tumes of  which  Phillis  spoke  had  been  worn  by  the 
young  dress-maker  at  one  of  Lady  Fitzroy's  after- 
noon parties.  She  was  not  quite  at  her  ease  with 
Phillis;  she  thought  her  a  little  high-and-mighty  in 
her  manner.  "A  uppish  young  person,"  as  she 
said  afterward;  "but  her  grand  airs  made  no  sort  of 
difference  to  me,  I  can  assure  you." 

ere  was  no  holding  pins  or  picking  up  scissors 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  241 

in  this  case.  On  the  contrary,  Mrs.  Trimmings 
watched  with  a  vigilant  eye,  and  was  ready  to 
pounce  on  Phillis  at  the  least  mistake  or  oversight, 
seeing  which,  Phillis  grew  cooler  and  more  off-hand 
every  moment.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  hag- 
gling over  the  cut  of  the  sleeve  and  arrangement  of 
the  drapery.  "If  you  will  kindly  leave  it  to  me," 
Phillis  said  once;  but  nothing  was  further  from  Mrs. 
Trimmings's  intention.  She  had  not  a  silk  dress 
every  day;  and  she  had  always  been  accustomed  to 
settle  all  these  points  herself,  while  Miss  Slasher 
had  stood  by  humbly  turning  over  the  pages  of  her 
fashion  books,  and  calling  her,  at  every  sentence, 
44 Ma'am,"  a  word  that  Phillis's  lips  had  not  yet  ut- 
tered. Phillis's  patience  was  almost  tired  out  when 
she  was  at  last  allowed  to  depart,  with  a  large 
brown-paper  parcel  under  her  arm.  Mrs.  Trim- 
mings would  have  wrapped  it  up  in  newspaper,  but 
Phillis  had  so  curtly  refused  to  have  anything  but 
brown  paper  that  her  manner  rather  overawed  the 
woman. 

Poor  Phillis!  Yes,  it  had  really  come  to  pass,  and 
here  she  was,  actually  walking  through  Hadleigh 
in  the  busiest  time  of  the  day,  with  a  large,  ugly 
looking  parcel  and  a  little  black  bag!  She  had 
thought  of  sending  Dorothy  for  the  dress,  but  she 
knew  what  a  trial  it  would  have  been  to  the  old 
woman  to  see  one  of  her  young  ladies  reduced  to 
this,  and  she  preferred  lading  herself  to  hurting  the 
poor  old  creature's  feelings.  So  she  walked  out 
bravely  in  her  best  attire.  But,  nevertheless,  her 
shapely  neck  would  turn  itself  now  and  then  from 
side  to  side,  as  though  in  dread  ol  some  familiar 
face.  And  there  were  little  pin-pricks  all  over  her 
of  irritation  and  mortified  self-love.  "A  thing  is  all 
very  well  in  theory,  but  it  may  be  tough  in  prac- 
tice," she  said  to  herself.  And  she  felt  an  irresist- 
ible desire  to  return  the  offending  dress  to  that 
odious  Trimmings  and  tell  her  she  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  her— "a  disagreeable  old  cat  "  I 


242  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

am  afraid  Phillis  called  her,  for  one  is  not  always 
charitable  and  civil  spoken  in  one's  thoughts. 

44  We  are  going  the  same  way.  May  I  carry  that 
formidable-looking  parcel  for  you?"  asked  a  voice 
that  was  certainly  becoming  very  familiar. 

Poor  Phillis  started  and  blushed,  but  she  looked 
more  annoyed  than  pleased  at  the  rencontre. 

44 Mr.  Drummond,  are  you  omnipresent?  one  is 
forever  encountering  you!"  she  said,  quite  pet- 
tishly; but  when  Archie  only  laughed,  and  tried  to 
obtain  possession  of  the  parcel,  she  resisted,  and 
would  have  none  of  his  assistance. 

**Oh,  dear,  no!"  she  said;  "I  could  not  think  of 
such  a  thing!  Fancy  the  vicar  of  Hadleigh  conde- 
scending to  carry  home  Mrs.  Trimmings's  dress!" 

44 Mrs.  Trimmings's  dress?"  repeated  Mr.  Drum- 
mond, in  a  rapid  crescendo.  44Oh,  Miss  Challoner! 
I  declare  this  beats  everything!" 

Phillis  threw  him  a  glance.  She  meant  it  to  be 
cool,  but  she  could  not  keep  the  sadness  out  of  her 
eyes;  they  did  so  contradict  the  assumed  lightness 
of  her  words: 

"Miss  Milner  was  far  more  considerate;  she  made 
Joseph  carry  hers  to  the  Friary  when  he  left  your 
papers.  Was  he  not  a  benevolent  Joseph?  Mrs. 
Trimmings  wanted  to  wrap  up  her  silk  in  news- 
paper, but  I  said  to  myself,  4One  must  draw  the  line 
somewhere/  and  so  I  held  out  for  brown  paper.  Do 
you  think  you  could  have  offered  to  carry  a  parcel 
in  newspaper,  Mr.  Drummond?  Oh,  by  the  bye, 
how  can  you  condescend  to  walk  with  a  dressmaker? 
But  this  is  a  quiet  road,  and  no  one  will  see  you." 

44  Pardon  me  if  I  contradict  you,  but  there  is 
Colonel  Middleton  over  his  garden  palings  this  mo- 
ment," returned  Mr.  Drummond,  who  had  just  be- 
come painfully  aware  of  the  fact. 

"Don't  you  think  you  had  better  go  and  speak  to 
him,  then?  for  you  see  I  am  in  no  need  of  help," 
retorted  Phillis,  who  was  sore  all  over,  and  wanted 
to  get  rid  of  him,  and  yet  would  have  been  offended 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  243 

if  he  had  taken  her  at  her  word.  But  Mr.  Drum- 
rnond,  who  felt  his  position  an  uncomfortable  one, 
and  was  dreadfully  afraid  of  the  colonel's  banter, 
was  not  mean  enough  to  take  advantage  of  her  dis- 
missal. He  had  joined  himself  to  her  company  out 
of  pure  good  nature,  for  it  was  a  hot  day  and  the 
parcel  was  heavy ;  but  she  would  have  none  of  his 
assistance. 

So  he  only  waved  his  hand  to  his  friend,  who  took 
off  his  old  felt  hat  very  solemnly  in  return,  and 
watched  them  with  a  grieved  expression  until  they 
were  out  of  sight. 

"Now  I  will  bid  you  goodbye,"  he  said,  when 
they  had  reached  the  vicarage. 

Phillis  said  nothing,  but  she  held  out  her  hand, 
and  there  was  a  certain  brightness  in  her  eyes  that 
showed  she  was  pleased. 

"He  is  a  gentleman,  every  inch  of  him,  and  I 
won't  quarrel  with  him  any  more, "  she  thought, 
as  she  walked  up  to  the  Friary. 

"Oh,  how  nice  it  would  have  been  if  we  were  still 
at  Glen  Cottage  arid  he  could  see  us  at  our  best, 
and  we  were  able  to  entertain  him  in  our  old 
fashion !  How  Carrie  and  the  other  girls  would 
have  liked  him!  and  hew  jealous  Dick  would  have 
been !  for  he  never  liked  our  bringing  strange  young 
men  to  the  house,  and  always  found  fault  with  them 
if  he  could."  And  here  Phillis  sighed,  and  for  the 
moment  Mrs.  Trimmings  was  forgotten. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
"BRAVO,  ATALANTA!" 

Phillis  received  quite  an  ovation  as  soon  as  she 
crossed  the  threshold.  Dulce,  who  was  listening 
for  her  footsteps,  rushed  out  into  the  little  hall  and 
dragged  her  in,  as  though  she  were  too  weary  to 
have  any  movement  or  volition  of  her  own.  And 
thea  Naa  came  up  in  her  calm,  elder-sisterly  way, 


244  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

and  put  her  arm  round  her,  and  hoped  she  was  not 
very  tired,  and  there  was  so  much  to  say  and  so 
much  to  do,  and  she  wanted  her  advice,  and  so 
on. 

And  on  Nan's  forehead  lay  a  thoughtful  pucker, 
and  on  the  center-table  were  sundry  breadths  of 
green  silk,  crisp  looking  and  faintly  bronzed,  like 
withered  leaves  with  the  sun  on  them. 

*4Oh,  dear!  has  Miss  Drummond  been  here  in  my 
absence?"  asked  Phillis,  with  the  overwhelmed 
feelings  of  a  beginner  who  has  not  yet  learned  to 
separate  and  classify,  or  the  rich  value  of  odd  mo- 
ments. "Three  dresses  to  be  done  at  once!" 

44 One  at  a  time.  But  never  mind  Miss  Drum- 
mond's  this  moment.  Mother  is  safe  in  the  store- 
cupboard  for  the  next  half  hour,  and  we  want  to 
know  what  you  mean  by  your  ridiculous  message, 
*Trimmings,  not  Squails. '  Dulce  is  dying  of  curi- 
osity, and  so  am  I." 

4iYes;  but  she  looks  so  hot  and  tired  that  she 
must  refresh  herself  first."  And  Dulce  placed  on 
her  sister's  lap  a  plate  of  yellow  plums,  perfectly 
bedded  in  moss,  which  had  come  from  the  vicarage 
garden.  And  as  Phillis  enjoyed  the  dainty  repast, 
and  poured  out  her  morning's  experiences  in  the 
ears  of  her  astonished  auditors,  lo!  the  humiliation 
and  the  sting  were  forgotten,  and  only  an  intense 
sense  of  humor  of  the  situation  remained. 

It  was  Dulce  whose  pink  cheeks  were  now  burn- 
ing. 

44Oh,  Phillis!  how  could  you?  It  is  too  dreadful 
even  to  think  about!  That  fat  old  thing,  too! 
Why,  she  is  twice  as  big  as  Mrs.  Squails!" 

4 'Beggars  can  not  be  choosers,  my  dear,"  replied 
Phillis,  airily ;  for  rest  was  pleasant  and  the  fruit 
was  good,  and  it  was  so  delicious  to  feel  all  that  was 
over  and  she  was  safe  in  her  nest  again;  and  then 
the  pleasure  of  talking  it  all  over!  44Do  you  know 
— "she  began,  in  a  disconnected  manner,  and  then 
sat  and  stared  at  her  sisters  with  luminous  gray 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  245 

eyes,  until  they  begged  to  know  what  the  new  idea 
was. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  she  replied,  and  colored  a  little. 
And  then  she  blurted  out,  in  an  oddly  ashamed 
way:  "It  was  talking  to  you  two  dears  that  put  it  in 
my  head.  But  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  mo- 
ment that  if  one  is  ever  good  enough  to  get  to 
heaven,  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures  will  be  to  talk 
about  all  our  past  miseries  and  difficulties,  and  how 
the  angels  helped  us;  and,  though  you  may  laugh 
at  me" — they  were  doing  nothing  of  the  kind,  only 
admiring  her  with  all  their  might— "I  have  a  kind 
of  fancy  that  even  my 'Trimmings,  not  Squails,' 
episode  may  have  a  different  look  up  there." 

"My  dear,"  returned  Nan,  gently,  for  she  loved 
all  speeches  of  this  sort,  being  a  devout  little  soul 
and  truly  pious,  "nothing  was  further  from  my 
thoughts  than  to  laugh  at  you,  for  the  more  we 
think  in  this  way  the  grander  our  work  will  appear 
to  us.  Mrs.  Trimmings  may  be  fat  and  vulgar,  but 
when  you  were  measuring  her  and  answering  her 
so  prettily — and  I  know  how  nicely  you  would 
speak,  Phil — I  think  you  were  as  brave  as  one  of 
those  old  knights — I  can  not  remember  their  names 
— who  set  out  on  some  lofty  quest  or  other." 

"I  suppose  the  child  means  Sir  Galahad,"  ob- 
served Phillis,  with  a  groan  at  Nan's  ignorance. 
"Oh,  Nannie,  I  wish  1  could  say; 

"  'My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 
Because  my  heart  is  pure;'  " 

and  then  she  softly  chanted — for  quotation  never 
carne  amiss  to  her,  and  her  head  was  crammed  with 
choice  selections  from  the  poets, 

"  'All  armed  I  ride,  wbate'er  betide, 
Until  I  find  the  Holy  Grail/  ' 

"Yes,  the  Sangreal,  or  the  Quest.  It  does  not 
matter  what,  for  it  was  only  an  allegory,"  returned 
Nan,  who  had  plenty  of  ideas,  only  she  confused 


24$  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

them  sometimes,  and  was  not.  a&  clever  in  her  defi- 
nitions as  Phillis.  "It  only  meant  that  those  grand 
old  knights  had  some  holy  purpose  and  aim  in  their 
lives,  for  which  they  trained  arid  toiled  and  fought. 
Don't  you  see?  the  meaning  is  quite  clear.  We  can 
have  our  Quest,  too." 

"Bless  hei  dear  heart,  if  she  is  not  traveling 
thousands  of  years  and  miles  from  Mrs.  Trim- 
mings!" exclaimed  Phillis,  who  never  could  be 
serious  long.  "Well,  Nannie,  I  understand  you, 
though  you  are  a  trifle  vague.  We  will  have  our 
Quest  and  our  unattainable  standard,  and  I  will  be 
your  maiden  knight — yours  and  Dulce's. 

"  *How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall ! 
For  then  I'll  battle  till  the  end, 
To  save  from  shame  and  thralL*  " 

And  when  she  had  repeated  this  she  rose,  laugh- 
ing;, and  said  they  were  all  a  little  demented;  and 
what  did  they  mean  by  wasting  their  time  when 
there  were  three  dresses  to  be  cut  out?  and  Dulce 
must:  have  the  work  fixed  for  the  sewing-machine. 

For  the  next  hour  there  was  little  talk,  only  the 
snipping  sound  of  scissors  and  the  rustling  of  silken 
breadths,  and  sometimes  the  swish  and  the  tearing 
of  sundry  materials,  and  then  the  whirring  and  bur- 
ring and  tappings  of  Dulce's  sewing-machine,  like 
a  dozen  or  two  woodpeckers  at  work  on  an  iron-tree. 
And  no  one  quoted  any  more  poetry,  for  prose  was 
heaped  up  everywhere  about  them,  and  their  heads 
were  full  of  business. 

But  in  the  afternoon,  when  things  were  in  pro- 
gress and  looked  promising,  and  Mrs.  Challoner  had 
had  her  nap,  and  was  busy  over  some  sleeves  that 
they  had  given  tier  to  keep  her  quiet  and  satisfy 
her  maternal  conscience  that  she  was  helping  her 
girls,  Phillis  did  hear  a  little  about  Miss  Drum- 
mond's  visit.  The  sewing-machine,  which  they 
worked  by  turns,  had  stopped  for  a  time,  and  they 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  247 

were  all  three  round  the  table,  Sewing  and  fixing 
as  busily  as  possible,  and  Phillis,  remembering  Sir 
Galahad,  dared  not  say  she  was  tired,  only  she 
looked  out  on  the  lengthening  shadows  with  de- 
light, and  thought  about  tea  and  an  evening  walk 
just  to  stretch  her  cramped  muscles.  And  if 
one  day  seemed  so  long,  how  would  a  veek  of  days 
appear  before  the  blessed  Sunday  y-ve  them  a  few 
hours'  freedom? 

It  was  at  this  moment,  that  Nan,  with  fine  tact, 
broke  the  silence  that  was  good  for  work,  but  was 
apt  to  wax  drowsy  in  time : 

4 'Miss  Milner's  dress  is  getting  on  well.  How 
fast  you  two  girls  work!  and  mammh  is  doing  the 
sleeves  beautifully.  Another  afternoon  you  must 
let  the  work  rest,  mammie,  and  read  to  us,  or  Phil- 
lis will  get  restive.  By  the  bye,  Dulct,  we  have 
not  told  her  a  word  about  Miss  Drummond's 
visit." 

44  No,  indeed.  Was  it  not  good  of  her  to  come  so 
soon?"  exclaimed  Dulce.  "She  told  us  she  wanted 
to  be  our  first  customer,  and  seemed  quite  dis- 
appointed when  we  said  that  we  were  bound  in 
honor  and  mere  gratitude  to  send  Miss  Milner's 
dress  home  first.  *Not  that  I  am  in  a  hurry  for  my 
dress,  for  nobody  cares  what  I  wear,'  she  said,  quite 
cheerfully;  *bat  I  wanted  to  be  the  first  on  the  list.' 
I  wish  we  could  oblige  her,  for  she  is  a  nice,  un- 
affected little  thing,  and  I  am  beginning  to  like  her, 
though  she  is  a  little  fussy." 

44  But  she  was  as  meek  as  a  lamb  about  tier 
dress,"  added  Nan,  who  was  a  first-rate  needle- 
woman, and  could  work  rapidly  while  she  talked. 
"Just  fancy,  Phil!  she  wanted  to  have  a  jacket  with 
tabs  and  loose  sleeves,  just  for  comfort  and 
coolness." 

"Loose  sleeves  and  a  jacket!"  almost  gasped  Phil- 
lis. for  the  princess  skirts  were  then  worn,  and 
jackets  were  consigned  to  oblivion  for  the  time 
b«rng.  "I  hope  you  told  her,  Nan,  that  we  had 


248  NOT  LIKE  OTHER 

never  worked  for  Mrs.  Noah,  neither  had  Mrs,  Shem 
ever  honored  us  by  her  custom?" 

"Well,  no,  Phillis;  I  was  not  quite  so  imperti- 
nent, and  clever  speeches  of  that  sort  never  occur 
to  me  until  you  say  them.  But  I  told  Miss  Drum- 
mond  that  I  could  not  consent  to  spoil  her  lovely 
dress  in  that  way;  and  then  she  laughed  and  gave 
in,  and  owned  she  knew  nothing  about  fashions, 
and  that  her  sister  Grace  always  ordered  her  clothes 
for  her,  because  she  chose  such  ugly  things.  She 
sat  and  chatted  for  such  a  long  time  with  us ;  she 
had  only  just  gone  when  you  came  home." 

*4And  she  told  us  such  a  lot  about  this  wonderful 
Grace,"  went  on  Dulce;  "she  says  Archie  quite 
worships  her.  Well,  mammie,"  as  Mrs.  Challoner 
poised  her  needle  in  midair  and  regarded  her  young- 
est daughter  with  unfeigned  astonishment,  "I  am 
only  repeating  Miss  Drummond's  words;  she  said 
'Archie.'" 

4 'But,  my  dear,  there  was  no  need  to  be  so  literal, " 
returned  Mrs.  Challoner,  reprovingly;  for  she  was 
a  gentlewoman  of  the  old  school,  and  nothing 
grieved  her  more  than  slipshod  English  or  any 
idiom  or  idiocy  of  modern  parlance  in  the  mouths  of 
her  bright  young  daughters.  To  speak  of  any 
young  man,  except  Dick,  without  the  ceremonious 
prefix  was  a  heinous  misdemeanor  in  her  eyes. 
Dulce  would  occasionally  trespass,  and  was  always 
rebuked  with  much  gravity.  "You  could  have  said 
'her  brother/  could  you  not?" 

"Oh,  mammie,  I  am  sure  Providence  intended 
you  for  an  old  maid,  and  you  have  not  fulfilled  your 
destiny,"  retorted  Dulce,  who  was  rarely  awed  by 
her  mother's  solemnity.  "All  this  fuss  because  I 
say  'Archie!'  Oh,  I  forgot,  that  name  is  sacred: 
the  Reverend  Archibald  Drummond  adores  his  sister 
Grace." 

"And  she  must  be  very  nice,"  returned  Mrs. 
Challoner,  with  an  indulgent  smile  at  her  pet, 
Dulce.  "I  am  sure,  from  what  Miss  Drummond 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  249 

told  us  this  morning,  that  she  must  be  a  most  supe- 
rior person.  Why,  Phillis,  she  teaches  all  her  four 
younger  sisters,  and  one  of  them  is  sixteen.  Miss 
Drummond  says  she  is  never  out  of  the  school-room, 
except  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  evening,  when  her 
father  and  brothers  come  home.  There  are  two 
more  brothers,  I  think  she  said.  Dear,  what  a 
large  family!  and  Miss  Drummond  hinted  that  they 
were  not  well  off." 

"I  should  like  to  know  that  Grace,"  began  Phillis, 
and  then  she  shook  her  head  reflectively.  "No, 
depend  upon  it,  we  should  be  disappointed  in  her; 
family  paragons  are  generally  odious  to  other  folk. 
Most  likely  she  wears  spectacles,  and  is  a  thin, 
thread-papery  sort  of  person." 

"On  the  contrary,  she  is  a  sweet-looking  girl, 
with  large,  melancholy  eyes;  for  Miss  Drummond 
showed  us  her  photograph.  So  much  for  your 
imagination,  Phil,"  and  Dulce  looked  triumphant. 
"And  she  is  only  twenty-two,  and,  though  not 
pretty,  just  the  sort  of  face  one  could  love." 

"Some  people's  swans  turn  out  to  be  geese  in  the 
end/'  remarked  Phillis,  provokingly;  but  she  re- 
gistered at  the  same  time  a  mental  resolve  that  she 
would  cross-examine  Mr.  Drummond  on  the  earliest 
opportunity  about  this  wonderful  sister  of  his.  Oh, 
it  was  no  marvel  if  he  did  not  look  down  on  them 
when  they  had  not  got  brains  enough  to  earn  their 
living  except  in  this  way!  and  Phillis  stuck  her 
needle  into  Miss  Milner's  body-lining  so  viciously 
that  it  broke. 

The  sharp  click  roused  Nan's  vigilance,  and  she 
looked  up,  and  was  at  once  full  of  pity  for  Phillis's 
pale  face. 

"You  are  tired,  Phil,  and  so  are  we  all,"  she  said, 
brightly;  "and,  as  it  is  our  first  day  of  work,  we 
will  not  overdo  ourselves.  Mammie,  if  you  will 
make  the  tea,  we  will  just  tidy  up,  and  look  out  the 
patterns  for  you  to  match  the  trimmings  and  but- 
tons to-morrow;"  for  this  same  business  of  mftch- 


250  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

ing  was  rather  hailed  by  Mrs.  Challoner  as  a  relief 
and  amusement. 

Phillis  grumbled  a  little  over  this  additional  labor, 
though,  at  the  same  time,  no  one  worked  harder 
than  she;  but  she  was  careful  to  explain  that  it  was 
her  right,  as  a  free-born  Britoness,  to  grumble,  and 
that  it  was  as  much  a  relief  to  her  peculiar  constitu- 
tion as  a  good  long  yawn  is  to  some  people. 

"And  it  answers  two  purposes,"  as  she  observed; 
"for  it  airs  the  lungs  and  relieves  the  mind,  and  no 
one  takes  any  more  notice  than  if  I  set  the  wind 
blowing.  And  thankful  I  am,  and  every  mother's 
child  of  us,  that  Dorothy  is  approaching  this  room 
with  her  dust-pan  and  brush.  Dorothy,  I  have  a 
nice  little  sum  for  you  to  do.  How  many  snippets 
of  green  and  black  silk  go  to  a  dust-pan?  Count 
them,  and  subtract  all  the  tacking-thread  and 
Dulce's  pins." 

"Phillis,  you  are  just  feverish  from  overfatigue 
and  sitting  so  long  in  one  place,  for  you  are  used  to 
running  about."  And  Nan  took  her  by  the  shoul- 
ders and  marched  her  playfully  to  the  small  parlor, 
where  Mrs.  Challoner  was  waiting  for  them. 

"Come,  girls,"  she  said,  cheerfully.  ''Dorothy 
has  baked  your  favorite  little  cakes,  and  there  are 
new-laid  eggs  for  those  who  are  hungry;  and  I  am 
sure  you  have  all  earned  your  tea,  darlings.  And, 
oh,  Phillis!  how  tired  you  look!"  And  Mrs. 
Challoner  looked  round  on  each  face  in  turn,  in  the 
unwise  but  loving  way  of  mothers. 

This  was  too  much  for  Phillis.  and  she  interlaced 
her  fingers  and  put  them  suddenly  and  sternly  over 
her  mother's  eyes. 

"Now,  mammie,  promise/' 

"Phillis,  my  dear,  how  can  you  be  so  absurd!" 
but  Mrs.  Challoner  strove  in  vain  to  release  herself. 
Phillis's  fingers  had  iron  tenacity  in  them  when  she 
chose. 

"A  thing  like  this  must  be  nipped  in  the  bud," 
pronounced  Phillis,  apostrophizing  her  laughing 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  251 

sisters.  "You  must  not  look  at  us  in  that  fashion 
every  evening,  as  though  we  were  sheep  in  a  pen, 
or  rabbits  for  sale.  You  will  be  weighing  us  next, 
and  my  nerves  will  not  stand  it.  No,  mother;  here 
I  strike.  I  will  not  be  looked  at  in  that  manner." 

"But,  Phillis —     Oh,  you  nonsensical  child!" 

"Personal  remarks  are  to  be  tabooed  from  this 
moment.  You  must  not  say,  'How  tired  you  look!' 
or  'How  pale  you  are!'  It  is  not  manners  at  the 
Friary,  and  it  is  demoralizing.  I  am  ten  times 
more  tired  this  minute  than  I  was  before  you  told 
me  so. " 

"Very  well,  Phillis;  but  you  must  let  me  pour 
out  the  tea."  And  then  Phillis  subsided.  But  she 
had  started  the  fun,  and  Dulce  soon  took  it  up  and 
set  the  ball  rolling.  And  Dorothy,  working  hard 
with  her  dust-pan  and  brushes,  heard  the  merri- 
ment, and  her  old  face  lighted  up. 

"Bless  their  sweet  faces — pretending  to  be  happy, 
just  to  cheer  up  the  mistress,  and  make  believe  it  is 
only  a  game  they  are  having!"  muttered  the  old 
woman,  as  she  paused  to  listen.  "But,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  Miss  Phillis,  poor  dear,  is  just  ready  to 
drop  with  fatigue.  Only  to  hear  her,  one  would 
think  she  was  as  perky  as  possible." 

When  the  evening  meal  was  over,  Mrs.  Challoner 
leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  made  a  little  speech  to 
her  daughters: 

"Thank  you,  my  dears.  You  have  done  me  so 
much  good.  Now,  if  you  want  to  please  me,  you 
will  all  three  put  on  your  hats  and  take  a  nice  walk 
together." 

The  girls  looked  at  each  other,  and  every  pair  of 
eyes  said,  as  plainly  as  possible,  "What  a  delicious 
idea!  But  only  two  can  go,  and  I  intend  to  be  the 
filial  victim. "  But  Mrs.  Challoner  was  too  quick 
for  them.  "I  said  all  three,"  she  remarked,  very 
decidedly.  "If  one  offers  to  stay  with  me,  I  shall 
just  put  myself  to  bed  and  lock  the  door;  but  if  you 
will  be  good,  and  enjoy  this  lovely  evening,  I  will 


252  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

take  my  book  in  the  garden  and  be  quite  happy 
until  you  come  back  to  me."  And  when  they  saw 
that  she  meant  it,  and  would  only  be  worried  by  a 
fuss,  they  went  off  as  obediently  as  possible. 

They  walked  very  sedately  down  the  Braidwood 
Road,  and  past  the  White  House ;  but  when  they 
got  into  the  town,  Phillis  hurried  them  on  a  little. 
"I  don't  want  people.  It  is  air  and  exercise  and 
freedom  for  which  I  am  pining."  And  she  walked 
so  fast  that  they  had  some  trouble  to  keep  up  with 
her. 

But  when  they  had  left  every  trace  of  human 
habitation  behind  them,  and  were  strolling  down 
the  rough,  uneven  beach,  toward  a  narrow  strip  of 
sand  that  would  soon  be  covered  by  the  advancing 
tide,  Phillis  said,  in  an  odd,  breathless  way:  "Nan, 
just  look  round  and  see  if  there  be  any  one  in  sight, 
before,  behind,  or  around  us;"  and  Nan,  though  in 
some  little  surprise,  did  at  once  as  she  was  bidden, 
in  the  most  thorough  manner.  For  she  looked  up 
at  the  sky  first,  as  though  she  were  afraid  of  bal- 
loons or  possible  angels;  and  then  at  the  sea,  which 
she  scanned  narrowly,  so  that  not  even  a  fish  could 
escape  her;  and  after  that  she  beat  the  boundaries 
of  the  land. 

"No,  there  is  not  a  creature  in  sight  except  our- 
selves and  Laddie,"  she  answered. 

"Very  well/' answered  Phillis,  promptly.  "Then, 
if  it  be  all  safe,  and  the  Hadleigh  wits  are  away 
wool-gathering,  and  you  will  not  tell  mother,  I 
mean  to  have  a  race  with  Dulce  as  far  as  we  can 
run  along  the  shore;  and  if  I  do  not  win—  And 
here  she  pursed  her  lips  and  left  her  sentence 
unfinished,  as  though  determined  to  be  provoking, 

"We  shall  see  "about  that,"  returned  Dulcr,, 
accepting  the  challenge  in  a  moment,  for  she  was 
always  ready  to  follow  a  good  lead. 

"Oh,  you  foolish  children!"  observed  Nan,  in  her 
staid  fashion.  But  she  did  not  offer  the  slightest 
remonstrance,  knowing  of  old  that  unless  Phillis 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  253 

found  some  safety-valve  she  would  probably  wax 
dangerous.  So  she  called  Laddie  to  her,  and  held 
him  whining  and  struggling,  for  he  wanted  to 
stretch  his  little  legs  too,  thinking  a  race  was  good 
for  dogs  as  well  as  for  girls.  But  Nan  would  not 
hear  of  it  for  a  moment;  he  might  trip  them  up  and 
cause  another  sprained  ankle. 

44 Now,  Nan,  you  must  be  umpire,  and  say,  One, 
two,  three !"  And  Nan  again  obeys,  and  then 
watches  them  with  interest.  Oh,  how  pretty  it  was, 
if  only  any  one  could  have  seen  it,  except  the  crabs 
and  star-fish,  and  they  never  take  much  notice:  the 
foreground  of  the  summer  s^a  coming  up  with  little 
purple  rushes  and  a  fringe  o£foam;  the  yellow  sand, 
jagged,  uneven,  with  salt-water  pools  here  and 
there;  the  two  girls  in  their  light  dresses  skimming 
over  the  ground  with  swift  feet,  skirting  the  pools, 
jumping  lightly  over  stones,  even  climbing  a  break- 
water, then  running  along  another  level  piece  of 
sand — Dulce  a  little  behind,  but  Phillis  as  erect  and 
sure-footed  as  Atalanta. 

Now  Nan  has  lost  them,  and  puts  Laddie  down 
and  prepares  to  follow.  In  spite  of  her  staidness, 
she  would  have  dearly  loved  a  run  too;  only  she 
thinks  of  Dick,  and  forbears. 

Dulce,  who  is  out  of  breath,  fears  she  must  give 
up  the  race,  and  begins  to  pant  and  drop  behind  in 
earnest,  and  to  wish  salt  water  were  fresh,  and 
then  to  dread  the  next  breakwater  as  a  hopeless 
obstacle;  but  Phillis,  who  is  still  as  fresh  as  pos- 
sible, squares  her  elbows  as  she  has  seen  athletes 
do,  and  runs  lightly  up  to  it,  unmindful  and  bliss- 
fully ignorant  of  human  eyes  behind  a  central 
hole. 

Some  one  who  is  of  a  classical  turn  has  been 
thinking  of  the  daughter  of  lasus  and  Clymene,  and 
cries  out,  *4 Bravo,  Atalanta!  But  where  is  Mil- 
anion,  that  he  has  forgotten  the  golden  apples!" 
And  Phillis,  stricken  dumb  by  the  question  and  the 


254  NOT  LIKE  OTH£R  GIRLS. 

sudden  apparition  of  a  bearded  face  behind  the 
break-wafer,  remains  standing  as  though  she  were 
carved  in  stone. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
"MOTHERS  ARE  MOTHERS." 

4 'Mr.  Drummond!  Oh,  dear!  is  one  never  to  be 
free  from  pastoral  supervision?"  muttered  Phillis, 
half  sulkily,  when  she  roused  from  her  stupefaction 
and  had  breath  to  take  the  offensive.  And  what 
would  he  think  of  her?  But  that  was  a  question  to 
be  deferred  until  later,  when  nightmares  and  dark- 
ness and  troublesome  thoughts  harass  the  unwary 
soul.  "Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams/'  she  might 
have  said  to  herself,  quoting  from  "Locksley  Hall. " 
But  she  did  nothing  of  the  kind — only  looked  at  the 
offending  human  being  with  such  an  outraged  dig- 
nity in  her  bearing  that  Mr.  Drummond  nearly 
committed  himself  by  bursting  out  laughing. 

He  refrained  with  difficulty,  and  said,  rather 
dryly: 

"That  was  a  good  race;  but  1  saw  you  would  win 
from  the  first,  and  you  jumped  that  stone  splen- 
didly. I  suppose  you  know  the  story  of  Atalanta?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  responded  Phillis,  gloomily;  but  she 
could  not  help  showing  off  her  knowledge,  all  the 
same;  and  she  had  always  been  so  fond  of  heathen 
mythology,  and  had  even  read  translations  of 
Homer  and  Virgil.  "She  had  a  she-bear  for  a 
nurse,  and  was  eventually  turned  into  a  lion;  and  I 
always  thought  her  very  stupid  for  being  such  a 
baby  and  stopping  to  pick  up  the  golden  apple." 

"Nevertheless,  the  subject  is  a  charming  one  for 
a  picture,"  returned  Archie,  with  admirable  readi- 
ness, for  he  saw  Phillis  was  greatly  hurt  by  this 
untoward  accident,  and  he  liked  the  girl  all  the 
better  for  her  spirit.  He  would  not  have  discovered 
himself  at  all,  only  in  another  moment  she  must 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  255 

have  seen  him;  and  if  she  would  only  have  believed 
how  fully  he  entered  into  the  fun,  and  how  graceful 
and  harmless  he  thought  it,  there  would  have  been 
no  pang  of  wounded  self-esteem  left.  But  girls, 
especially  if  they  be  worthy  of  the  name,  are  so 
sensitive  and  prickly  on  such  matters. 

Dulce  had  basely  deserted  her  sister,  and,  at  the 
sight  of  the  clerical  felt  hat,  had  fled  to  Nan's  side 
for  protection. 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  Nan  had  said,  consoling  her; 
"it  is  only  Mr.  Drummond.  And  he  will  know  how 
it  was.  .nd  that  we  thought  there  was  not  a  creature 
in  sight."  Nevertheless,  she  felt  a  little  sorry  in 
her  heart  that  such  a  thing  had  happened.  It 
would  spoil  Phillis's  mirth,  for  she  was  very  proud; 
and  it  might  shock  their  mother. 

"Oh,  he  will  think  us  such  torn-boys  for  grown-up 
young  ladies!"  sighed  Dulce,  who  was  only  just 
grown  up. 

"Never  mind  what  he  thinks,"  returned  Nan, 
walking  fast,  for  she  was  anxious  to  come  to  Phil- 
lis's relief.  She  joined  them  very  quietly,  and  held 
out  her  hand  to  Archie  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. 

"Is  this  a  favorite  walk  of  yours,  Mr.  Drum- 
mond? We  thought  we  had  it  all  to  ourselves,  and 
so  the  girls  had  a  race.  They  will  be  dreadfully 
troubled  at  having  a  spectator;  but  it  might  be 
worse,  for  you  already  know  us  well  enough  not  to 
misconstrue  a  little  bit  of  fun." 

"I  am  glad  you  judge  me  so  truly,"  returned 
Archie,  with  a  gleam  of  pleasure  in  his  eyes.  Phil- 
lis  certainly  looked  uncommonly  handsome  as  she 
stood  there,  flushed  and  angry.  But  how  sweet 
and  cool  Nan  looked — not  a  hair  ruffled  nor  a  fold 
of  her  dress  out  of  order;  whereas  Dulce's  brown 
locks  were  all  loose  about  her  shoulders,  shaken 
down  by  the  exercise.  Nevertheless,  at  that 
moment,  Pm'llis  looked  the  most  striking. 

"I  am  afraid  my  sudden  appearance  has  put  your 


356  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

sister  out  dreadfully.  I  assure  you  I  would  have* 
made  myself  into  thin  air  if  I  could,"  went  on 
Archie^  penitently;  "but  all  the  same,  it  was  impos- 
sible not  to  applaud  the  winner.  I  felt  inclined  to 
wave  my  hat  in  the  air,  and  cry,  *  Bravo,  Atalanta!' 
half  a  dozen  times.  You  made  such  pretty  running, 
Miss  Challoner :  and  I  wish  Grace  could  have  seen  it. ' ' 

The  last  word  acted  like  magic  on  Phillis's  cloudy 
brow.  She  had  passed  over  two  delicately  implied 
compliments  with  a  little  scorn.  Did  he  think  her 
like  other  girls,  to  be  mollified  by  sugar-plums  and 
sweet  speeches?  He  might  keep  all  that  for  the 
typical  young  lady  of  Hadleigh.  At  Oldfield  the 
young  men  knew  her  better. 

It  must  be  owned  that  the  youth  of  that  place  had 
been  slightly  in  awe  of  Phillis.  One  or  two  had 
even  hinted  that  they  thought  her  strong-minded. 
"She  has  stand-off  ways,  and  rather  laughs  at  a 
fellow,  and  makes  one  feel  sometimes  like  a  fool," 
they  said ;  which  did  not  prove  much,  except  that 
Phillis  showed  herself  above  nonsense,  and,  having 
knowledge  of  shams,  and  would  not  be  deceived, 
and  being  the  better  horse  of  the  two,  showed  it; 
and  no  man  likes  to  be  taken  down  in  his  class. 

As  Phillis  would  not  flirt — not  understanding  the 
art,  but  Dulce  proved  herself  to  be  a  pretty  apt 
pupil — they  left  off  trying  to  make  her,  and  talked 
sensibly  to  her  instead,  which  she  liked  better. 
But  though  more  than  one  had  admired  her,  no  one 
had  ventured  to  persuade  himself  or  her  that  he  was 
in  love;  but  for  that  there  was  plenty  of  time,  Phil- 
lis not  being  the  sort  of  girl  to  remain  long  without 
a  lover. 

So  when  she  heard  Grace's  name  she  pricked  up 
her  ears,  and  the  proud  look  left  her  face ;  and  she 
said,  a  little  archly,  but  in  a  way  that  pleased  Mr. 
Drummond: 

44  All  the  same,  I  am  glad  your  sister  was  not  here, 
for  she  would  think  Dulce  and  me  such  torn-boys!" 
using  Dulce 's  expression. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  25? 

Archie  shook  his  head  very  decidedly  at  this. 

4 4Ah!  you  do  not  know  Grace,  and  how  she  loves 
a  bit  of  fun;  only  she  never  gets  it,  poor  girl!"  sigh- 
ing in  a  marked  manner,  for  he  saw  how  interested 
Phillis  looked.  "If  you  could  only  hear  her  laugh. 
But  pVsase  sit  down  a  moment  and  rest  yourselves," 
continued  the  artful  yc  ng  man,  who  had  not  dared 
to  propose  such  a  thim  before. 

Nan  hesitated;  but  a  glance  at  Phillis's  hot  face 
decided  her. 

^Just  for  five  minutes/'  she  said,  "and  then  we 
must  go  back  to  mother;"  for  she  had  already 
determined  that  they  must  cut  their  walk  short  for 
the  purpose  of  getting  rid  of  Mr.  Drummond. 

And  they  sat  down  on  the  beach  and  Dulce  retired 
behind  the  break- water  to  take  off  her  hat  and  tuck 
up  her  hair;  while  Archie,  taking  no  notice,  leaned 
against  the  other  side,  and  felt  well  contented  with 
his  position — three  such  pretty  girls,  and  all  the 
world  well  away! 

"Is  Grace  your  favorite  sister?"  asked  Phillis, 
suddenly,  as  she  menaced  Laddie  with  a  small 
pebble. 

This  was  a  lucky  opening  for  Archie.  He  was 
never  seen  to  more  advantage  than  when  he  was 
talking  about  Grace.  There  was  no  constraint  or 
consciousness  about  him  at  such  times,  but  he  would 
speak  with  a  simple  earnestness  that  made  people 
say,  "What  a  good  fellow  he  is!" 

"Oh,  she  has  always  been  that,  you  know, "  he 
said,  brightly,  "ever  since  she  was  a  little  thing, 
and  I  used  to  carry  her  about  in  my  arms,  and  string 
horse-chestnuts  for  her,  when  she  was  the  funniest, 
merriest  little  creature,  and  so  clever.  I  suppose 
when  a  man  has  seven  sisters  he  may  be  allowed  to 
have  a  favorite  among  them?  and  there  is  not  one 
of  them  to  compare  with  Grace." 

"Seven  sisters!"  repeated  Nan,  with  a  smile;  and 
then  she  added,  "you  are  very  lucky,  Mr.  Drum- 
mond. " 

17  Girla. 


258  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Archie  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  this:  he  had 
never  quite  recognized  his  blessings  in  this  respect. 
Isabel  and  Tottie  might  be  tolerated,  but  he  could 
easily  have  dispensed  with  Susie  and  Laura  and 
Clara;  he  had  a  knack  of  forgetting  their  existence 
when  he  was  absent  from  them,  and  when  he  was 
at  home  he  did  not  always  care  to  be  reminded  of 
their  presence.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who  are 
very  exacting  to  their  womenkind,  who  resent  it  as 
a  personal  injury  if  they  fail  in  good  looks  or  are 
not  pleasant  to  the  eye.  He  did  not  go  so  far  as  to 
say  to  himself  that  he  could  dispense  with  poor 
Mattie,  too,  but  he  certainly  acted  on  most  occasions 
as  though  he  thought  so. 

"Are  you  not  fond  of  all  your  sisters?"  asked 
Phillis,  rather  maliciously,  for  she  had  remarked  the 
shrug. 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  replied  the  young  man,  coloring 
a  little,  "one  can  not  expect  to  be  interested  in  a 
lot  of  school-girls.  I  am  afraid  I  know  very  little 
about  the  four  youngest,  except  that  they  are  work- 
ing Grace  to  death.  Just  fancy,  Miss  Challoner!" 
he  continued,  addressing  Nan,  and  quite  disregard- 
ing Phillis's  sympathetic  looks.  "Grace  has  actu- 
ally no  life  of  her  own  at  all;  she  teaches  those 
girls,  sits  with  them,  walks  with  them,  helps  them 
mend  their  clothes,  just  like  a  daily,  or  rather,  a 
nursery  governess,  except  that  she  is  not  paid  and 
has  no  holidays.  I  can  not  think  how  my  mother 
can  find  it  in  her  heart  to  work  her  so  hard!"  fin- 
ished Archie,  excited  to  wrath  at  the  remembrance 
of  Grace's  wrongs. 

"Well,  do  you  know,"  returned  Nan,  thought- 
fully, as  he  seemed  to  expect  an  answer  to  this,  and 
Phillis,  for  a  wonder,  was  silent,  "I  cannot  think 
your  sister  an  object  of  pity.  Think  what  a  good 
and  useful  life  she  is  leading!  She  must  be  a  per- 
fect treasure  to  her  mother,  and  I  dare  say  they  all 
love  her  dearly. ' ' 

"The    girls    do,"  was    the    somewhat  grudging 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  259 

response;  "they  follow  her  about  like  four  shad- 
ows, and  even  Isabel  can  do  nothing  without  her 
advice.  When  I  am  home  I  can  scarcely  get  her 
for  a  moment  to  myself.  It  is  *  Grace,  come  here/ 
and  *  Grace,  please  do  this  for  me,'  until  I  wonder 
she  is  not  worn  out." 

4 'Oh,  how  happy  she  mtist  be!"  responded  Nan, 
softly,  for  to  her  no  lot  seemed  sweeter  than  this. 
To  be  the  center  and  support  of  a  large  family  circle 
— the  friend  and  trusted  confidante  of  each!  What 
a  wonderful  creature  this  Grace  must  be !  and  how 
could  he  speak  of  her  in  that  pitying  tone?  "No 
life  of  her  own!"  Well,  what  life  could  she  want 
better  than  this?  To  be  the  guide  and  teacher  of 
her  younger  sisters,  and  to  be  loved  by  them  so 
dearly.  44Oh,  I  think  she  is  to  be  envied!  her  life 
must  be  so  full  of  interest,"  she  said,  addressing 
the  astonished  Archie,  who  had  certainly  never 
taken  this  view  of  it.  And  when  she  had  said  this 
she  gave  a  slight  signal  to  her  sisters,  which  they 
understood  at  once ;  and  then  they  paced  slowly  down 
the  beach,  with  their  faces  toward  the  town,  talking 
as  they  went. 

They  did  not  walk  four  abreast,  as  they  used  to 
do  in  the  Oldfield  lanes;  but  Nan  led  the  way  with 
Mr.  Drummond,  and  Phillis  and  Dulce  dropped 
behind. 

Archie  was  a  little  silent,  but  presently  he  said, 
quite  frankly,  as  though  he  had  know  her  for  years 
— but  from  'the  first  moment  he  had  felt  strangely 
at  home  with  these  girls : 

"Do  you  know  you  have  thrown  a  fresh  light  on 
a  vexed  subject?  I  have  been  worrying  myself 
dreadfully  about  Grace,  I  wanted  her  to  live  with 
me  because  there  was  more  sympathy  between  us 
than  there  ever  will  be  between  my  sister  Mattie 
and  myself.  We  have  more  in  common,  and  think 
the  same  on  so  many  subjects,  and  I  knew  how 
bappy  I  could  have  made  her. " 

"Yes,  I  see,"  returned  Nan,  and  she  looked  up  at 


260  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

him  in  such  an  interested  way  that  he  found  no 
difficulty  in  going  on: 

"  We  had  planned  for  years  to  live  together,  but 
when  1  accepted  the  living,  and  the  question  was 
mooted  in  the  family  council,  my  mother  would 
not  hear  of  it  for  a  moment.  She  said  Grace  could 
not  possibly  be  spared." 

44 Well,  I  suppose  not,  after  what  you  have  told 
me.  But  it  must  have  been  a  great  disappointment 
to  you  both,"  was  Nan's  judicious  reply. 

44I  have  never  ceased  to  regret  my  mother's  decis- 
ion," he  returned  warmty,  "and  as  for  Grace,  I 
fear  she  has  taken  the  disappointment  grievously 
to  heart." 

44Oh,  I  hope  not." 

4 'Isabel  writes  to  my  sister  Mattie  that  Grace  is 
looking  thin  and  pale  and  has  lost  her  appetite,  and 
she  thinks  the  mother  is  getting  uneasy  about  her; 
and  1  cannot  help  worrying  myself  about  it,  and 
thinking  how  all  this  might  have  been  averted." 

44 1  think  you  are  wrong  in  that,"  was  the  unex- 
pected answer.  "When  one  has  acted  rightly,  to 
the  very  best  of  one's  power,  it  is  no  use  worrying 
about  consequences." 

44How  do  you  mean?"  asked  Archie,  very  much 
surprised  at  the  decided  tone  in  which  Nan  spoke. 
He  had  thought  her  too  soft  in  manner  to  possess 
much  energy  and  determination  of  character  ,  but 
he  was  mistaken. 

44 It  would  be  far  worse  if  your  sister  had  not  rec- 
ognized her  duty  and  refused  to  remain  at  home. 
One  cannot  find  happiness  if  one  moves  out  of  one's 
allotted  niche;  but,  of  course,  you  know  all  this 
better  than  I,  being  a  clergyman,  And,  oh,  how 
beautifully  you  spoke  to  us  last  Sunday!"  finished 
Nan,  remembering  all  at  once  that  she  was  usurp- 
ing his  place  and  preaching  a  little  sermon  of  her 
own. 

4 'Never  mind  that,"  he  replied,  impatiently, 
"tell  me  what  you  mean.  There  is  something 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  261 

behind  your  speech,  you  think  I  am  wrong  in  pity- 
ing poor  Grace  so  much." 

"If  you  ask  me  so  plainly,  I  must  say  yes,  though 
perhaps  I  am  not  competent  to  judge;  but,  from 
what  you  tell  me,  I  think  you  ought  not  to  pity  her 
at  all.  She  is  fulfilling  her  destiny.  Is  she  not 
doing  the  work  given  her  to  do?  and  what  can  any 
girl  want  more?  You  should  trust  your  mother,  I 
think,  Mr,  Drummond,  for  she  would  not  willingly 
overwork  her.  Mothers  are  mothers;  you  need  not 
be  afraid,"  said  Nan,  looking  up  in  her  clear, 
honest  way. 

"Thank  you;  you  have  taken  a  weight  off  my 
mind,"  returned  Archie,  more  moved  by  this  than 
he  cared  to  own.  That  last  speech  had  gone  home; 
he  must  trust  his  mother.  In  a  moment  scales 
seemed  to  fall  from  the  young  man's  eyes  as  he 
walked  along  gravely  and  silently  by  Nan.  "Why, 
what  manner  of  girls  could  these  be?"  he  thought; 
"frolicsome  as  kittens,  and  yet  possessing  the  wis- 
dom of  mature  womanhood."  And  those  few 
simple  words  of  Nan  abided  long  with  him. 

What  if  he  and  Grace  were  making  a  mistake, 
and  there  was  no  hardship  in  her  case  at  all,  but 
only  clear  duty,  and  a  most  high  privilege,  as  Nan 
hinted?  What  if  his  mother  were  right,  ana  only 
they  were  wrong? 

The  idea  was  salutary,  but  hardly  pleasant;    for 
he   had  certainly  aided  and  abetted  Grace  in  hei 
discontent,  and  had  doubtless  increased  her  repin< 
ings    at    her    dull    surroundings.     Surely  Grace's 
talents  had  been  given  her  for  a  purpose,  else  why 
was  she  so  much  cleverer  than  the  others — so  gifted 
with  womanly  accomplishments?      And  that  cleai 
head  of  hers — she  had  a  genius  for  teaching,  he  had 
never   denied    that.       Was  his  mother,  a  sensible, 
large-sighted  woman  in  her  way,  to  be  secretly  con 
demned  as  a  tyrant,  and  wanting  in  maternal  ten 
derness  for  Grace,  because  she  had  made  use  of  thL. 
gifted  daughter  for  the  good  of  her  other  children. 


262  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

and  had  refused  to  part  with  her  at  Archie's  re- 
quest? 

Archie  began  to  feel  uncomfortable,  for  con- 
science was  waxing  warm  with  him;  and  there  had 
been  a  grieved,  hurt  tone  in  his  mother's  letters  of 
late,  as  though  she  had  felt  herself  neglected  by 
him. 

4 'Mothers  are  mothers— you  need  not  be  afraid/' 
Nan  had  said,  with  simple,  wholesome  faith  in  the 
instincts  of  motherhood ;  and  the  words  had  come 
home  to  him  with  the  strongest  power. 

His  poor  harassed  mother — what  a  hard  life  hers 
had  been?  Archie  began  to  feel  his  heart  quite 
tender  toward  her;  perhaps  she  was  a  little  severe 
and  exacting  with  the  girls,  but  then  none  of  them- 
understood  her  in  the  least;  "for  her  bark  was 
always  worse  than  her  bite,"  thought  Archie;  and 
girls,  at  least  the  generality  of  them,  are  sometimes 
aggravating. 

He  thought  of  the  weary  times  she  must  have  had 
with  his  father — for  Mr.  Drummond  could  make 
himself  disagreeable  to  his  wife  when  things  went 
wrong  with  him;  and  the  sullen  fortitude  with 
which  he  bore  his  reversal  of  fortune  gave  small 
opening  to  her  tenderness.  The  very  way  in  which 
he  shirked  all  domestic  responsibilities,  leaving  on 
her  shoulders  the  whole  weight  of  the  domestic 
machinery  and  all  the  home  management,  had 
hardened  and  imbittered  her. 

A  large  family  and  small  means,  little  support 
from  her  husband,  who  interfered  less  and  less  with 
domestic  matters — all  this  had  no  doubt  fostered  the 
arbitrary  will  that  governed  the  Drummond  house- 
hold. If  her  husband  had  only  kept  her  in  check — 
if  he  had  supported  her  authority,  and  not  left  her 
to  stand  alone — she  would  have  been,  not  a  better 
woman,  for  Archie  knew  his  mother  was  good,  but 
she  would  have  been  softer  and  more  lovable,  and 
her  children  would  have  seen  deeper  into  her  heart. 

Some  such    thoughts    as    these  passed  through 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  263 

Arcnie's  mind  as  he  walked  beside  Nan,  but  he 
worked  them  out  more  carefully  when  he  was  alone 
that  night.  Just  before  they  reached  the  Friary, 
he  had  started  another  subject;  for,  turning  to 
Phillis  and  Dulce,  whom  he  had  hitherto  ignored, 
he  asked  them  whether  he  might  enroll  one  or  all 
of  them  among  his  Sunday-school  teachers. 

Phillis'  eyes  sparkled  at  this. 

44 Oh,  Nan,  how  delightful!  it  will  remind  us  of 
Oldfield." 

44 Yes,  indeed,'*  chimed  in  Dulce,  who  had  left 
her  infant  class  with  regret ;  but,  to  their  surprise, 
Nan  demurred. 

44 At  Oldfield  things  were  very  different,"  she 
said,  decidedly;  44 we  played  all  the  week,  and  it 
was  no  hardship  to  teach  the  dear  children  on  Sun- 
day ;  but  now  we  shall  have  to  work  so  hard  that  we 
shall  be  glad  of  one  day's  rest." 

44  But  surely  you  might  spare  us  one  hour  or  two 
in  the  afternoon?"  returned  Archie,  putting  on 
what  Grace  called  44his  celestial  face." 

44  In  the  afternoons  mother  will  be  glad  of  our 
company,  and  sometimes  we  shall  indulge  in  a  talk. 
No,  Mr  Drummond,  our  weekdays  are  too  full  of 
work,  and  we  shall  need  all  the  rest  we  can  get  on 
Sunday."  And,  with  a  smile,  Nan  dismissed  the 
subject. 

Phillis  spoke  regretfully  of  it  when  he  had  left 
them. 

44 It  would  have  been  so  nice,"  she  pleaded;  but 
Nan  was  inexorable. 

44 You  can  go  if  you  like,  Phil;  but  I  think  mother 
is  entitled  to  that  one  afternoon  in  the  week ;  and  I 
will  not  consent  to  any  parish  work  on  that  account ; 
and  then  1  am  sure  we  shall  often  be  so 
tired."  And  Nan's  good  sense,  as  usual,  carried 
the  day. 

After  that  they  all  grouped  round  the  window  in 
the  little  parlor,  and  repeated  to  their  mother  every 
word  of  their  conversation  with  Mr.  Drummoud. 


264  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Mrs.  Challoner  grew  alarmed  and  tearful  in  a 
moment. 

44  Oh,  my  darlings,  promise  me  to  be  more  careful 
for  the  future!"  she  pleaded.  "Of  course,  it  was 
only  fun,  Phillis,  and  he  will  not  think  anything  of 
it.  Still,  in  a  strange  place,  where  no  one  knows 
you—" 

"Dulce  and  I  will  never  run  a  race  again;  I  think 
I  can  promise  you  that,"  replied  Phillis,  very 
grimly,  who  felt  that  "Bravo,  Atalanta!"  would 
haunt  her  in  her  dreams. 

"And — and  I  would  not  walk  about  with  Mr. 
Drummond,  though  he  is  our  clergyman  and  a  very 
gentlemanly  person.  People  might  talk;  and  in 
your  position,  my  poor  dears — "  Mrs.  Challoner 
hesitated,  for  she  was  very  nice  in  her  scruples,  and 
not  for  worlds  would  she  have  hinted  to  her  daugh- 
ters that  Mr.  Drummond  was  young  and  unmarried, 
and  a  very  handsome  man  in  the  bargain.  "You 
see,  I  cannot  always  be  with  you,  and  as  you  have 
to  work  for  your  living,  and  cannot  be  guarded  like 
other  girls,  you  have  all  the  more  need  to  be  cir- 
cumspect. You  don't  think  me  overstrict,  do  you, 
darlings?" 

"No,  dear  mother,  you  are  perfectly  right, "  re- 
turned Nan,  kissing  her.  44I  knew  how  you  would 
feel,  and  so  we  came  home  directly  to  get  rid  of 
him.  It  would  never  do  for  the  vicar  of  the  parish 
to  be  seen  walking  about  with  dressmakers." 

"Don't,  Nan!"  exclaimed  Phillis,  with  a  shudder. 
Nevertheless,  as  she  turned  away  she  remembered 
how  she  had  enjoyed  that  walk  down  the  Braidwood 
Road  that  very  morning,  when  he  offered  to  carry 
home  Mrs.  Trimmings'  dress  and  she  would  not  let 
him, 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  265 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

MATTIE'S  NEW  DRESS. 

The  remainder  of  the  week  passed  harmlessly 
and  without  any  special  event  to  mark  it,  and, 
thanks  to  Nan's  skilled  management  and  Phillis's 
pride,  there  were  no  further  contretemps  to  shock 
Mrs.  Challoner's  sense  of  propriety.  The  work 
progressed  with  astonishing  rapidity;  in  the  morn- 
ings the  young  dressmakers  were  sufficiently  brisk 
and  full  of  zeal,  and  in  the  afternoons,  when  their 
energies  flagged  and  their  fingers  grew  weary, 
Dulce  would  sing  over  her  task,  or  Mrs.  Challoner 
would  read  to  them  for  the  hour  together;  but,  not- 
withstanding the  interest  of  the  tale,  there  was 
always  great  alacrity  manifested  when  the  tea-bell 
gave  them  the  excuse  for  putting  away  their  work. 

One  or  two  evenings  they  gardened,  and  Mrs. 
Challoner  sat  under  the  mulberry-tree  and  watched 
them;  on  another  occasion  they  took  a  long  country 
walk,  and  lost  themselves,  and  came  back  merry 
and  tired,  and  laden  with  primrose  roots  and  ferns. 
They  had  met  no  one,  except  a  stray  laborer — had 
seen  glow-worms,  picked  wild  flowers,  and  declared 
themselves  mightily  refreshed.  One  evening 
Phillis,  who  was  not  to  be  repressed,  contrived  a 
new  amusement. 

"Life  is  either  a  mill-pond  or  a  whirlpool,"  she 
said,  rather  sententiously.  "We  have  been  stag- 
nant for  three  days,  and  I  begin  to  feel  flat.  Races 
are  tabooed,  besides,  we  cannot  always  leave 
mother  alone.  I  propose  we  go  out  in  the  garden 
and  have  a  game  of  battledoor  and  shuttlecock;"  for 
this  had  been  a  winter  pastime  with  them  at  the 
cottage. 

Nan,  who  was  always  rather  sober-minded  now, 
demurred  to  this.  She  would  have  preferred  gar- 
is  Girls. 


966  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

dening  a  little,  or  sitting  quietly  with  her  mother 
under  the  mulberry-tree,  but  Phillis,  who  was  in  a 
wild  mood,  overruled  all  her  objections,  and  by  and 
by  the  battle  began,  and  the  shuttlecocks  flew 
through  the  air. 

The  week's  work  was  finished,  and  the  three 
dresses  lay  in  their  wrappers,  -waiting  for  Dorothy 
to  convey  them  to  their  several  owners.  Nan,  who 
was  really  an  artiste  at  heart,  had  called  her  mother 
proudly  into  the  room  to  admire  the  result  of  their 
labors.  Mrs.  Challoner  was  far  too  accustomed  to 
her  daughters'  skillfulness  to  testify  any  surprise, 
but  she  at  once  pronounced  Miss  Drummond's  dress 
the  chef-d'oeuvre.  Nan's  taste  was  faultless,  and  the 
trimmings  she  had  selected  harmonized  so  well 
with  the  soft  tints  of  the  silks. 

"They  are  all  very  nice,  and  Mrs.  Trimmings 
will  be  charmed  with  her  blue  silk,"  observed  Mrs. 
Challoner,  trying  to  throw  a  little  interest  into  her 
voice  and  to  suppress  a  sigh;  and  then  she  helped 
Nan  to  adjust  the  wrappers,  and  to  pin  the  neatly 
written  bills  inside  each. 

"1  am  sure  that  is  business-like/'  said  Nan,  with 
a  satisfied  nod,  for  she  never  could  do  anything  by 
halves;  and  she  was  so  interested  in  her  work  that 
she  would  have  been  heart-broken  if  she  thought 
one  of  the  dresses  would  be  a  misfit;  and  then  it 
was  that  Phillis,  who  had  been  watching  her  very 
closely,  brightened  up  and  proposed  a  game. 

It  was  a  very  pretty  sight,  the  mother  thought, 
as  she  followed  her  girls'  movements;  the  young 
figures  swayed  so  gracefully  as  they  skimmed 
hither  and  thither  over  the  lawn  with  light,  butter- 
fly movements,  the  three  eager  faces  upturned  in 
the  evening  light,  their  heads  held  well  back. 

"Two  hundred,  two  hundred  and  one,  two  hun- 
dred and  two — don't  let  it  drop,  Dulce!"  panted 
Phillis,  breathlessly. 

*Oh,  my  darlings,  don't    tire    yourselves!"  ex- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  26? 

claimed  Mrs.  Challoner,  as  her  eyes  followed  the 
white  flutter  of  the  shuttlecocks. 

This  was  the  picture  that  Mr.  Drummond  sur- 
veyed. Dorothy,  who  was  just  starting  on  her 
round,  and  was  in  no  mood  for  her  errand,  had 
admitted  him  somewhat  churlishly. 

44 Yes,  the  mistress  and  the  young  ladies  were  in; 
and  would  he  step  into  the  parlor,  as  her  hands 
were  full?" 

44 Oh,  yes,  I  know  the  way,"  Mr.  Drummond  had 
returned,  quite  undaunted  by  the  old  woman's  sour 
looks. 

But  the  parlor  was  empty,  save  for  Laddie,  who 
had  been  shut  up  not  to  spoil  the  sport,  and  who 
was  whining  most  piteously  to  be  let  out.  He 
saluted  Archie  with  a  joyous  bark,  and  commenced 
licking  his  boots  and  wagging  his  tail  with  mute  peti- 
tion to  be  released  from  this  durance  vile. 

Archie  patted  and  fondled  him,  for  he  was  good 
to  all  dumb  creatures. 

4 'Poor  little  fellow!  I  wonder  why  they  have 
shut  you  up  here?"  he  said;  and  then  he  took  him 
up  in  his  arms,  and  stepped  to  the  window  to  recon- 
noiter. 

And  then  he  stood  and  looked,  perfectly  fasci- 
nated by  the  novel  sight.  His  sisters  played  battle- 
door  and  shuttlecock  in  the  school-room  sometimes, 
or  out  in  the  passages  on  a  winter's  afternoon.  He 
had  once  caught  Susie  and  Clara  at  it,  and  had 
laughed  at  them  in  no  measured  terms  for  indulg- 
ing in  such  a  babyish  game.  *4I  should  have  thought 
Dottie  might  have  played  at  that,"  he  had  said, 
rather  contemptuously.  44I  suppose  you  indulge  in 
skipping-rope  sometimes."  And  the  poor  girls  had 
paused  in  their  game,  feeling  ashamed  ot  them- 
selves, Archie  would  think  them  such  hoidens. 

He  remembered  his  reprimand  with  a  strange 
feeling  of  compunction,  as  he  stood  by  the  window 
trying  vainly  to  elude  Laddie's  caresses.  What  a 
shame  of  him  to  have  spoiled  those  poor  children's 


268  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

game  with  his  sneer,  when  they  had  so  little  fun  in 
their  lives;  and  yet,  as  he  recalled  Clara's  clumsy 
gestures,  and  Susie's  short-sighted  attempts,  he  was 
obliged  to  confess  that  battledoor  and  shuttlecock 
wore  a  different  aspect  now.  Could  anything  sur- 
pass Phillis'  swift-handed  movements,  brisk,  grace- 
ful, alert,  or  Nan's  attitude  as  she  sustained  the 
duel?  Dulce,  who  seemed  dodging  in  between  them 
in  a  most  eccentric  way,  had  her  hair  loose,  as 
usual,  curling  in  brown  lengths  about  her  shoulders. 
She  held  it  with  one  hand,  as  she  poised  her  battle- 
door  with  the  other.  This  time  Archie  thought  of 
Nausicaa  and  her  maidens  tossing  the  ball  beside 
the  river,  after  washing  the  wedding  garments. 
Was  it  in  this  way  the  young  dressmakers  disported 
themselves  during  the  evenings? 

It  was  Phillis  who  first  discovered  the  intruder. 
The  shuttlecocks  had  become  entangled,  and  had 
fallen  to  the  ground.  As  she  stooped  to  pick  them 
up,  her  quick  eyes  detected  a  coat-sleeve  at  the 
Window;  and  an  indefinable  instinct,  for  she  could 
not  see  his  face,  made  her  call  out : 

"Mother,  Mr.  Drummond  is  in  the  parlor.  Do 
go  to  him,  while  Dulce  puts  up  her  hair."  And 
then  she  said,  severely,  "I  always  tell  you  not  to 
wear  your  hair  like  that,  Dulce.  Look  at  Nan  and 
me;  we  are  quite  unruffled;  but  yours  is  always 
coming  down.  If  you  have  pretty  hair,  you  need 
not  call  people's  attention  to  it  in  this  way. "  At 
which  speech  Dulce  tossed  her  head  and  ran  away, 
too  much  offended  to  answer. 

When  Archie  saw  Mrs.  Challoner  crossing  the 
lawn  with  the  gait  of  a  queen,  he  knew  he  was  dis- 
covered, so  he  opened  the  window  and  stepped  out 
in  the  coolest  possible  way 

"I  seem  always  spoiling  sport,"  he  said,  with  a 
mischievous  glance  at  Phillis,  which  she  received 
with  outward  coolness  and  an  inward  twinge. 
"Bravo,  Atal.anta!"  sounded  in  her  ears  again. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  269 

"Your  maid  invited  me  in,  but  I  did  not  care  to  dis- 
turb you." 

"I  am  glad  you  did  not  open  the  window  before," 
returned  Nan,  speaking  with  that  directness  and 
fine  simplicity  that  always  put  things  to  right  at 
once ;  "it  would  have  startled  us  before  we  got  to  the 
five  hundred,  and  then  Phillis  would  have  been  dis- 
appointed. Mother,  shall  we  bring  out  some  more 
chairs  instead  of  going  into  the  parlor?  It  is  so 
much  pleasanter  out  here."  And  as  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner  assented,  they  were  soon  comfortably  estab- 
lished on  the  tiny  lawn ;  and  Archie,  very  much  at 
his  ease,  and  feeling  himself  unaccountably  happy, 
proceeded  to  deliver  some  trifling  message  from  his 
sister,  that  was  his  ostensible  reason  for  his  in- 
trusion. 

"Why  does  she  not  deliver  her  messages  her- 
self?" thought  Phillis;  but  she  kept  this  remark  to 
herself.  Only,  that  evening  she  watched  the  young 
clergyman  a  little  closely,  as  though  he  puzzled  her. 
Phillis  was  the  man  of  the  family,  and  it  was  she 
who  always  stood  upon  guard  if  Nan  or  Dulce 
needed  a  sentinel.  She  was  beginning  to  think 
Mr.  Drummond  came  very  often  to  see  them,  con- 
sidering their  short  acquaintance.  If  it  were  Miss 
Mattie,  now,  who  ran  in  and  out  with  little  offer- 
ings of  flowers  and  fruit  in  a  nice  neighborly  fash- 
ion! But  for  this  very  dignified  young  man  to 
burden  himself  with  these  slight  feminine  messages 
— a  question  about  new-laid  eggs,  which  even  Nan 
had  forgotten. 

Phillis  was  quite  glad  when  her  mother  said: 

"You  ought  to  have  brought  your  sister,  Mr. 
Drummond;  she  must  be  so  dull  all  alone" — forget- 
ting all  about  the  dressmaking,  poor  soul!  but 
Phillis  remembered  it  a  moment  afterward,  with  a 
rush  of  bitter  feeling. 

Perhaps,  after  all, 'that  was  why  he  came  in  so 
often,  because  he  was  so  sorry  for  them,  and  wished 
to  help  them,  as  he  said,  A  clergyman  has 


270  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

privileges  than  other  men ;  perhaps  she  was  wrong 
to  suspect  him.  He  might  not  wish  his  sister  to 
visit  with  them,  except  in  a  purely  business-like 
way;  but  with  him  it  was  different.  Most  likelv 
he  had  tea  with  Mrs.  Trimmings  sometimes,  just  to 
show  he  was  not  proud;  he  might  even  sit  and  chat 
with  Mrs.  Squails,  and  not  feel  compromised  in  the 
least.  Oh,  yes!  how  stupid  she  was  to  think  he  ad- 
mired Nan,  because  she  had  intercepted  a  certain 
glance!  That  was  her  mania,  thinking  every  one 
must  be  after  Nan.  Things  were  different  now. 

Of  course  he  would  be  their  only  link  with  civil- 
ized society — the  only  cultivated  mind  with  which 
they  could  hold  converse ;  and  here  Phillis  ceased 
to  curl  her  lip,  and  her  gray  eyes  took  a  somber 
shade,  and  she  sighed  so  audibly  that  Archie  broke 
off  an  interesting  discussion  on  last  Commemora- 
tion, and  looked  at  her  in  unfeigned  surprise. 

44Oh,  yes!  we  were  there/'  returned  Nan,  inno- 
cently, who  loved  to  talk  of  those  dear  old  times; 
44 and  we  were  at  the  fete  at  Oriel,  and  at  the  con- 
cert at  Magdalen  also.  Ah!  do  you  remember, 
Dulce?"  And  then  she  faltered  a  little  and  flushed 
— not  because  Mr.  Drummond  was  looking  at  her  so 
intently,  but  at  certain  thoughts  that  began  to  in- 
trude themselves,  which  intwined  themselves  with 
the  moonlighted  cloisters. 

44 1  was  to  have  been  there,  too,  only  at  the  last 
moment  I  was  prevented,"  replied  Archie;  but  his 
tone  was  inexplicable  to  the  girl,  it  was  at  once  so 
regretful  and  awe-struck.  Good  heavens!  If  he 
had  met  them,  and  been  introduced  to  them  in 
proper  form!  They  had  mentioned  a  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton; well,  Hamilton  had  been  a  pupil  of  his;  he  had 
coached  him  during  a  term.  "You  know  Hamil- 
ton?" he  had  said,  staring  at  her;  and  tb«n  he 
wondered  what  Hamilton  would  say  if  he  came 
down  to  stay  with  him  next  vacation. 

These  reflections  made  him  rather  absent  and 
even  when  he  took  his  leave,  which  was  nof  until 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  271 

the  falling  dews  and  the  glimmer  of  a  late  dusk 
drove  Mrs.  Challoner  into  the  house,  these  thoughts 
still  pursued  him.  Nothing  else  seemed  to  have 
taken  so  strong  a  hold  on  him  as  this. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  kept  repeating  to  himself ; 
'to  think  that  the  merest  chance — just  the  inciden- 
tal business  of  a  friend — prevented  me  from  occu- 

ing  my  old  rooms  during  Commemoration!  to 
;hink  I  might  have  met  them  in  company  with 
Hamilton  and  the  other  fellows!" 

The  sudden  sense  of  disappointment,  of  some- 
;hing  lost  irremediably  in  his  life,  of  wasted  oppor- 
tunities, of  denied  pleasures,  came  over  the  young 
nan's  mind.  He  could  not  have  danced  with  Nan 
it  the  University  ball,  it  is  true ;  clergymen,  ac- 
cording to  his  creed,  must  not  dance.  But  there 
svas  the  fete  at  Oriel,  and  the  Magdalen  concert, 
md  the  Long  Walk  in  the  Christchurch  meadows, 
ind  doubtless  other  opportunities. 

He  never  asked  himself  if  these  girls  would  have 
nterested  him  so  much  if  he  had  met  them  first  in 
>rdinary  society ;  from  the  very  first  moment  they 
lad  attracted  him  strangely.  Had  he  known  them 
>nly  a  fortnight?  Good  heavens!  it  seemed 
nonths,  years,  a  life-time!  These  revolutions  of 
nind  are  not  to  be  measured  by  time.  It  had  come 
;o  this,  that  the  late  fallow  of  Oriel,  so  aristocratic 
n  his  tastes,  so  temperate  in  his  likings,  had  en- 
ered  certain  devious  paths,  where  hidden  pitfalls 
and  thorny  inclosures  warn  the  unwary  traveler  of 
unknown  dangers,  and  in  which  he  was  walking, 
lot  blindfold,  but  'by  strongest  will  and  intent,  led 
jy  impulse  like  a  mere  boy,  and  not  daring  to  raise 
tiis  eyes  to  the  future.  "And  what  Grace  would 
lave  said!"  And  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
A.rchie  felt  that  in  this  case  he  could  not  ask 
trace's  advice.  He  was  loath  to  turn  in  at  his  own 

e,  but  Mattie  was  standing  there  watching  for 
im.  She  ran  out  into  the  road  to  meet  him,  and 
hen  he  could  see  there  were  letters  in  her  hands, 


272  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"Oh,  dear,  Archie,  1  thought  yon  were  never 
coming  home!"  she  exclaimed.  "And  I  have  such 
news  to  tell  you!  There  is  a  letter  for  you  from 
Grace,  and  mother  has  written  to  me ;  and  there  is 
a  note  from  Isaoel  inside,  and  she  is  engaged — 
really  and  truly  engaged — to  Mr.  Ellis  Burton ;  and 
the  wedding  is  to  be  in  six  weeks,  and  you  and  I  are 
to  go  down  to  it,  and — oh,  dear — "  Here  Mattie 
broke  down,  and  began  to  sob  with  excitement  and 
pleasure  and  the  longing  for  sympathy. 

"Well,  well,  there  is  nothing  to  cry  about!"  re- 
turned Archie,  roughly;  and  then  his  manner 
changed  and  softened  in  spite  of  himself;  for,  after 
all,  Isabel  was  his  sister  and  this  was  the  first  wed- 
ding in  the  family,  and  he  could  not  hear  such  a 
piece  of  news  unmoved.  "Let  me  hear  all  about 
it,"  he  said;  and  then  he  took  poor  little  Mattie 
into  the  Tiouse,  and  gave  her  some  wine,  and  was 
very  kind  to  her,  and  listened  to  his  mother's  letter 
and  Isabel's  gushing  effusion  without  a  single  sneer. 

"Poor  little  Belle,  she  does  seem  very  happy!"  he 
said,  quite  affectionately,  as  he  turned  up  the  lamp 
still  more,  and  began  Grace's  letter. 

Mattie  sat  and  gazed  at  him  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy, 
but  she  did  not  venture  to  ask  him  to  read  it  to  her. 
How  nice  he  was  to-night,  and  how  handsome  he 
looked!  there  never  was  such  a  brother  as  Archie. 
But  suddenly,  as  though  he  was  conscious  of  being 
watched,  he  sat  down  by  the  table  and  shaded  his 
face  with  his  hand. 

No,  Mattie  was  right  in  her  surmise :  he  would 
not  have  cared  to  show  that  letter  to  any  one. 

The  first  sheet  was  all  about  Isabel.  "Dear  little 
Isabel  has  just  left  me,"  wrote  Grace.  "The  child 
looks  so  pretty  in  her  new  happiness,  you  would 
hardly  know  her.  She  has  just  been  showing  me 
the  magnificent  hoop  of  diamonds  Ellis  has  given 
her.  She  says  we  must  all  call  him  Ellis  now. 
4  Chacuna  songottt.9  Poor  Ellis  is  not  very  brilliant, 
certainly.  I  remember  we  used  to  call  him  clown- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  273 

ish  and  uncultivated.  But  he  has  a  good  heart,  and 
he  is  really  very  tond  of  Isabel;  and,  as  she  is  satis- 
fied, I  suppose  we  need  not  doubt  the  wisdom  of  her 
choice.  Mother  is  radiant,  and  makes  so  much  of 
the  little  bride-elect  that  she  declares  her  head  is 
quite  turned.  The  house  is  quite  topsy-turvy  with 
the  excitement  of  this  first  wedding  in  the  family. 
Isabel  is  very  young  to  be  married,  and  I  tell 
mother  six  weeks  is  far  too  short  for  an  engage- 
ment; but  it  seems  Ellis  will  not  listen  to  reason, 
and  he  has  talked  mother  over.  Perhaps  I  am 
rather  fastidious,  but,  if  I  were  Isabel,  I  should  hate 
to  receive  my  trousseau  from  my  lover;  and  yet 
Ellis  wants  his  mother  to  get  everything  for  the 
fiancee.  I  believe  there  is  to  be  a  sort  of  compro- 
mise, and  Mrs.  Burton  is  to  select  heaps  of  pretty 
things — dresses  and  mantles  and  Paris  bonnets. 
They  are  rolling  in  riches.  Ellis  has  taken  a  large 
house  in  Sloane  Square,  and  his  father  has  bought 
him  a  landau  and  a  splendid  pair  of  horses;  every- 
thing— furniture,  plate,  and  ornaments — is  to  be  as 
massive  and  expensive  as  possible.  If  I  were  Isabel 
I  should  feel  smothered  by  all  these  grand  things, 
but  the  little  lady  takes  it  all  quite  coolly. 

"When  I  get  a  moment  to  myself  I  sit  down  and 
say,  'In  six  weeks  I  shall  see  Archie!'  Oh,  my  dar- 
ling! this  is  almost  too  good  news  to  be  true!  Only 
six  weeks,  and  then  I  shall  really  see  you!  Now, 
do  you  know,  I  am  longing  for  a  good  clearing-up 
talk?  for  your  letters  lately  have  not  satisfied  me  at 
all.  Perhaps  I  am  growing  fanciful,  but  I  can  not 
help  feeling  as  though  something  has  come  between 
us.  The  current  of  sympathy  seems  turned  aside, 
somehow.  No,  do  not  laugh,  or  put  me  off  with  a 
jest,  for  I  am  really  in  earnest;  and,  but  for  fear  of 
your  scolding  me,  I  should  own  to  being  just  a  lit- 
tle unhappy.  Forgive  me,  Archie,  if  I  vex  you ; 
but  there  is  something;  I  am  thoroughly  convinced, 
of  that.  You  have  some  new  interests  or  worry 
that  you  are.  keeping  from  me.  Is  this  quite  in 

18 


274  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

accordance  with  our  old  compact,  dear?  Who  are 
these  Challoners  Mattie  mentions  in  her  letters? 
She  told  me  a  strange  rigmarole  about  them  the 
other  day — that  they  were  young  ladies  who  had 
turned  dressmakers.  What  an  eccentric  idea! 
They  must  be  very  odd  young  ladies,  I  should  think 
to  emancipate  themselves  so  completely  from  all 
conventionalities.  I  wish  they  had  nut  established 
themselves  at  Hadleigh  and  so  near  the  vicarage. 
Mattie  says  you  are  so  kind  to  them.  Oh,  Archie ! 
my  dear  brother!  do  be  careful!  1  do  not  half  like 
the  idea  of  these  girls;  they  sound  rash  and  de- 
signing, and  you  are  so  chivalrous  in  your  notions. 
Why  not  let  Mattie  be  kind  to  them,  instead  of  you? 
In  a  parish  like  Hadleigh  you  need  to  be  careful. 
Mother  is  calling  me,  so  I  will  just  close  this  with 
my  fondest  love.  "GRACE." 

Archie  threw  down  the  letter  with  a  frown.  For 
the  first  time  he  was  annoyed  with  Grace. 

Nan  and  her  sisters  rash  and  designing!  "Odd 
young  ladies !"  She  was  sorry  they  had  established 
themselves  at  Hadleigh!  It  was  really  too  bad  of 
Grace  to  condemn  them  in  this  fashion.  But  of 
course  it  must  be  Mattie's  fault;  she  had  written  a 
pack  of  nonsense,  exaggerating  things  as  much  as 
possible. 

Poor  Mattie  would  have  had  to  bear  the  brunt  of 
his  wrath,  as  usual,  only,  as  he  turned  to  her  with 
the  frown  black  on  his  forehead,  his  eyes  caught 
sight  of  her  dress.  Hitherto  the  room  had  been 
very  dimly  lighted ;  but  now,  as  he  looked  at  her 
in  the  soft  lamp-light,  his  anger  vanished  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"Why,  Mattie,  what  have  you  done  to  yourself? 
We  are  not  expecting  company  this  evening;  it  is 
nearly  ten  o'clock." 

Mattie  blushed  and  laughed,  and  then  she  actu- 
ally bridled  with  pleasure : 

"Oh,  no,  Archie;  of  course  not.  I  onl^  put  on 
my  new  dress  just  to  see  how  it  would  fit;  and  then 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  2?5 

I  tnought  you  might  like  to  see  it.  It  is  the  one 
uncle  gave  me,  and  is  it  not  beautifully  made?  I 
am  sure  Mrs.  Cheyne's  dresses  never  fit  better. 
You  and  Grace  may  say  what  you  like  about  the 
Challoners,  but  if  they  can  make  dresses  like  this, 
it  would  be  tempting  Providence  not  to  use  such  a 
talent,  and  just  because  they  were  too  fine  ladies  to 
work. " 

"I  do  believe  you  are  right,  Mattie,"  returned 
Archie,  in  a  low  voice.  "Turn  round  and  let  me 
look  at  you,  girl.  Do  you  mean  that  she — that  they 
made  it?" 

Mattie  nodded  as  she  slowly  pivoted  on  one  foot, 
and  then  revolved  like  the  figures  one  used  to  see 
on  old-fashioned  barrel-organs;  then,  as  she  stood 
still,  she  panted  out  the  words: 

"Is  it  not  just  lovely,  Archie?"  for  in  all  the 
thirty  years  of  her  unassuming  life,  Mattie  had 
never  had  such  a  dress,  so  no  wonder  her  head  was 
a  little  turned. 

"Yes,  indeed;  I  like  it  excessively, "  was  Archie's 
comment;  and  then  he  added,  with  the  delicious 
frankness  common  to  brothers:  "It  makes  you  look 
quite  a  different  person,  Mattie;  you  are  almost  nice 
looking  to-night." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  dear!"  cried  poor  Mattie,  quite 
moved  by  this  compliment;  for  if  Archie  thought 
her  almost  nice  looking  he  must  be  pleased  with 
her.  Indeed,  she  even  ventured  to  raise  herself  on 
tiptoe  and  kiss  him  in  gratitude,  which  was  taking  a 
great  liberty,  only  Archie  bore  it  for  once. 

"She  really  looked  very  well,  poor  little  woman!" 
thought  Archie,  when  Mattie  had  at  last  exhausted 
her  raptures  and  bidden  him  good-night.  "She 
would  not  be  half  so  bad  looking  if  some  one  would 
take  her  in  hand  and  dress  her  properly.  The  women 
must  be  right,  after  all,  and  there  is  a  power  in 
dress.  Those  girls  do  nothing  by  halves,"  he  con- 
tinued,  walking  up  and  down  the  room.  "I  would 
not  have  believed  they  had  made  it,  if  Mattie  had 


276  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

not  told  me.  'Rash  and  designing,'  indeed!  just 
because  they  are  not  like  other  girls — because  they 
are  natural,  more  industrious,  more  courageous, 
more  religious,  in  fact/'  And  then  the  young 
clergyman  softly  quoted  to  himself  the  words  of  the 
old  wise  king,  words  that  Nan  and  her  sisters  had 
ever  loved  and  sought  to  practice:  '4  Whatsoever  thy 
hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy  might." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
"OH,  YOU  ARE  PROUD!" 

On  the  following  Monday  morning  Nan  said  in 
rather  a  curious  voice  to  Phillis: 

44  If  no  customers  call  to-day,  our  work-room  will 
be  empty.  I  wonder  what  we  shall  do  with  our- 
selves?" 

To  which  Phillis  replied,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation: 

"We  will  go  down  and  bathe,  and  Dulce  and  I 
will  have  a  swimming-match;  and  after  that  we 
will  sit  on  the  beach  and  quiz  the  people.  Most 
likely  there  will  be  a  troupe  of  colored  minstrels  on 
the  Parade,  and  that  will  be  fun." 

44Oh,  I  hope  no  one  will  come!"  observed  Dulce, 
overjoyed  at  the  idea  of  a  holiday ;  but,  seeing  Nan's 
face  was  full  of  rebuke  at  this  outburst  of  frivolity, 
she  said  no  more. 

It  was  decided  at  last  tnat  they  should  wait  for  an 
hour  or  so  to  see  if  any  orders  arrived,  and  after 
that  they  would  consider  themselves  at  liberty  to 
amuse  themselves  for  the  remainder  of  the  day. 
But,  alas  for  Dulce's  hopes!  long  before  the  ap- 
pointed hour  had  expired,  the  gate-bell  rang,  and 
Miss  Drummond  made  her  appearance  with  a  large 
parcel,  which  she  deposited  on  the  table  with  a 
radiant  face. 

The  story  was  soon  told.      Her  silk  dress  was 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  277 

such  a  success,  and  dear  Archie  was  so  charmed 
with  it — here  Mattie,  with  a  blush,  deposited  a  neatly 
folded  package  in  Nan's  hand — that  he  had  actually 
proposed  that  she  should  have  another  gown  made 
after  the  same  pattern  for  every-day  wear.  And  he 
had  taken  her  himself  directly  after  breakfast  down 
to  Mordant's  and  had  chosen  her  this  dress.  He 
had  never  done  euch  a  thing  before,  even  for  Grace; 
no  wonder  Mattie  was  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  de- 
light. 

"It  is  very  pretty,"  observed  Nan,  critically; 
"your  brother  has  good  taste."  Which  speech  was 
of  course  retailed  to  Archie. 

Mattie  had  only  just  left  the  cottage  when  another 
customer  appeared  in  the  person  of  Miss  Middle- 
ton. 

Nan,  who  had  just  begun  her  cutting-out,  met  her 
with  a  pleased  glance  of  recognition,  and  then,  re- 
membering her  errand,  bowed  rather  gravely.  But 
Miss  Middleton,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  held 
out  her  hand, 

She  had  not  been  able  to  make  up  her  mind  about 
these  girls.  Her  father's  shocked  sense  of  de- 
corum, and  her  old-fashioned  gentlewoman's  ideas, 
had  raised  certain  difficulties  in  her  mind  which  she 
had  found  it  hard  to  overcome.  "Recollect,  Eliza- 
beth, I  will  not  have  those  girls  brought  here,"  the 
colonel  had  said  to  her  that  very  morning.  "They 
may  be  all  very  well  in  their  way,  but  I  have 
changed  my  opinion  of  them.  There's  poor  Drum- 
mond;  now  mark  my  words,  there  will  be  trouble 
by  and  by  in  that  quarter."  For  Colonel  Middleton 
had  groaned  in  spirit  ever  since  the  morning  he 
had  seen  the  young  vicar  walking  with  Phillis  down 
the  Braidwood  Road,  when  she  was  carrying  Mrs. 
Trimmings's  dress.  Elizabeth  answered  this  gentle 
protest  by  one  of  her  gentle  smiles.  "Very  well, 
dear  father;  I  will  ask  no  one  to  Brooklyn  against 
your  wish,  you  may  be  sure  of  that;  but  I  suppose 
they  may  make  my  new  dress?  Mattie's  has  been 


m  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

such  a  success;  they  certainly  understand  their  bus- 
iness. " 

"You  have  a  right  to  select  your  own  dress- 
maker, Elizabeth,"  returned  the  colonel,  with  a 
trigid  wave  of  his  hand,  fur  he  had  got  over  his  dis- 
appointment about  the  girls.  "I  only  warn  you  be- 
cause you  are  very  quixotic  in  your  notions ;  but  we 
must  take  the  world  as  we  find  it,  and  make  the 
best  of  it;  and  there  is  your  brother  coming  home 
by  and  by.  We  must  be  careful  for  Hammond's 
sake."  And,  as  Elizabeth's  good  sense  owned  the 
justice  of  her  father's  remark,  there  was  nothing 
more  said  on  the  subject. 

But  it  was  not  without  a  feeling  of  embarrassment 
that  Miss  Middleton  entered  the  cottage;  her  great 
heart  was  yearning  over  these  girls  whom  she  was 
compelled  to  keep  at  a  distance."  True,  her  father 
was  right,  Hammond  was  coming  home,  and  a 
young  officer  of  seven-and-twenty  was  not  to  be 
trusted  where  three  pretty  girls  were  concerned;  it 
would  never  do  to  invite  them  to  Brooklyn  or  to 
make  too  much  of  them.  Miss  Middleton  had 
ranged  herself  completely  on  her  father's  side,  but 
at  the  sight  of  Nan's  sweet  face  and  her  grave  little 
bow  she  forgot  all  her  prudent  resolutions,  and  her 
hand  was  held  out  as  though  to  an  equal. 

4tl  have  come  to  ask  you  if  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  make  me  a  dress,"  she  said,  with  a 
charming  smile.  '*  You  have  succeeded  so  well  with 
Miss  Drummond  that  I  can  not  help  wishing  to  have 
one  too."  And  when  she  said  this  she  looked 
quietly  round  her,  and  surveyed  the  pretty  work- 
room, and  Dulce  sitting  at  the  sewing-machine,  and 
lastly  Phillis's  bright,  intelligent  face,  as  she  stood 
by  the  table  turning  over  some  fashion- books. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Challoner  entered  the  room 
with  her  little  work-basket  and  placed  herself  at 
the  other  window.  Miss  Middleton  began  talking 
to  her  at  once,  wiiile  Nan  measured  and  pinned. 

"I  don't    think    I  ever  spent  a   pleasanter  half 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  279 

hour,"  she  told  her  father  afterward.  "Mattie  was 
right  in  what  she  said:  they  have  made  the  work- 
room perfectly  lovely  with  pictures  and  old  china; 
and  nothing  could  be  nicer  than  their  manners — so 
simple  and  unassuming,  yet  with  a  touch  of  inde- 
pendence too. " 

"And  the  old  lady?"  inquired  the  colonel,  mali- 
ciously, for  he  had  seen  Mrs.  Challoner  in  church, 
and  knew  better  than  to  speak  of  her  disrespectfully. 

"Old  lady,  father!  why,  she  is  not  old  at  all.  She 
is  an  exceedingly  pleasing  person,  only  a  little 
stately  in  her  manner ;  one  would  not  venture  to  take 
a  liberty  with  her.  We  had  such  a  nice  talk  while 
the  eldest  daughter  was  fitting  me.  Is  it  not 
strange,  father,  dear,  that  they  know  the  Paines? 
and  Mrs.  Satoris  is  an  old  acquaintance  of  theirs.  1 
think  they  were  a  little  sorry  when  they  heard  we 
knew  them  too,  for  the  second  girl  colored  up  so 
when  I  said  Adelaide  was  your  goddaughter." 

"Humph!  we  will  have  Adelaide  down  here,  and 
hear  all  about  them,"  responded  her  father,  briskly. 

"Well,  I  don't  know;  I  am  afraid  that  would  be 
painful  to  them,  under  their  changed  circumstances. 
Just  as  we  were  talking  about  Adelaide,  Miss  Mewl- 
stone  came  in,  and  then  they  were  so  busy  that  I 
did  not  like  to  stajf  any  longer.  Ah,  there  is  Mr. 
Drummond  coming  to  interrupt  us,  as  usual/' 

And  then  the  colonel  retailed  all  this  for  Archie's 
benefit.  He  had  come  in  to  glean  a  crumb  of  intel- 
ligence, if  he  could,  about  the  Challoners'  move- 
ments, and  the  colonel's  garrrulity  furnished  him 
with  a  rich  harvest. 

Phillis  had  taken  Miss  Mewlstone  in  hand  at  once 
in  the  intervals  of  business;  she  had  inquired  casu- 
ally after  Mrs.  Cheyne's  injured  ankle. 

"It  is  going  on  well;  she  can  stand  now,"  re- 
turned Miss  Mewlstone.  "The  confinement  has 
been  very  trying  for  her,  poor  thing,  and  she  looks 
sadly  the  worse  for  it.  Don't  take  out  those  pins, 
my  dear;  what  is  the  good  of  taking  so  much  pains 


280  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

with  a  fat  old  thing  like  me  and  pricking  your 
pretty  fingers?  Well,  she  is  always  asking  me  if  I 
have  seen  any  of  you  when  I  come  home." 

44 Mrs.  Cheyne  asks  after  us!"  exclaimed  Phillis, 
in  a  tone  of  astonishment. 

44 Ah!  just  so.  She  has  not  forgotten  you.  Mag- 
dalene never  forgets  any  one  in  whom  she  takes  an 
interest;  not  that  she  likes  many  people,  poor  dear! 
but  then  so  few  understand  her.  They  will  not 
believe  that  it  is  all  on  the  surface,  and  that  there 
is  a  good  heart  underneath." 

4 'You  call  her  Magdalene/'  observe  Phillis,  rather 
curiously,  looking  up  into  Miss  Mewlstone's  placid 
face. 

44 Ah!  just  so;  I  forgot.  You  see,  I  knew  her  as 
a  child — oh,  such  a  wee  toddling  mite !  younger  than 
dear  little  Janie.  I  remember  her  as  though  it 
were  yesterday;  the  loveliest  little  creature — pret- 
tier even  than  Janie!" 

44Was  Janie  the  child  who  died?" 

4*Yes,  the  darling!  She  was  just  three  years  old; 
a  perfect  angel  of  a  child!  and  Bertie  was  a  year 
older.  Poor  Magdalene !  it  is  no  wonder  she  is  as  she 
is — no  husband  and  no  children!  When  she  sent 
for  me  I  came  at  once,  though  I  knew  how  it  would 
be." 

*4You  knew  how  it  would  be?"  repeated  Phillis, 
in  a  questioning  voice,  for  Miss  Mewlstone  had 
come  to  a  full  stop  here.  She  looked  a  little  con- 
fused at  this  repetition  of  her  words. 

44 Oh!  just  so — just  so.  Thank  you,  my  dear. 
You  have  done  this  beautifully,  I  am  sure.  Never 
mind  what  an  old  woman  says.  When  people  are 
in  trouble  like  that  they  are  often  ill  to  live  with; 
Magdalene  has  her  moods;  so  have  we  all,  my  dear, 
though  you  are  too  young  to  know  that;  but  no 
one  understands  her  better  than  her  old  Bathsheba; 
that  is  my  name,  and  a  funny  old  name  too,  is  it 
not?"  continued  Miss  Mewlstone,  blinking  at  Phillis 
with  her  little  blue  eyes.  44The  worst  of  having 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  281 

such  a  name  is  that  no  one  will  use  it;  even  father 
and  others  called  me  Barby,  as  Magdalene  does 
sometimes  still." 

Bathsheba  Mewlstone!  Phillis's  lip  curled  with 
suppressed  amusement.  What  a  droll  old  thing 
she  was!  and  yet  she  liked  her,  somehow. 

"If  she  takes  it  into  her  head  to  come  and  see 
you,  you  will  try  and  put  up  with  her  sharp 
speeches?"  continued  Miss  Mewlstone,  a  little  anx- 
iously, as  she  tied  on  her  bonnet.  "Mr.  Drummond 
does  not  understand  her  at  all;  and  I  will  not  deny 
that  she  is  hard  on  the  poor  young  man,  and 
makes  fun  of  him  a  bit;  but,  bless  you,  it  is  only 
her  way!  She  torments  herself  and  other  people, 
just  because  time  will  not  pass  quickly  enough  and 
let  her  forget.  If  we  had  children  ourselves  we 
should  understand  it  better,  and  how  in  Ramah 
there  must  be  lamentation,"  finished  Miss  Mewl- 
stone, with  a  vague  and  peculiar  reference  to  the 
martyred  innocents  which  was  rather  inexplicable 
to  Phillis,  as  in  this  case  there  was  certainly  no 
Herod,  but  an  ordinary  visitation  of  Providence; 
but  then  she  did  not  know  that  Miss  Mewlstone 
was  often  a  little  vague. 

After  this  hint,  Phillis  was  not  greatly  surprised 
when,  one  morning,  a  pair  of  gray  ponies  stopped 
before  the  Friary,  and  Mrs.  Cheyne's  tall  figure 
came  slowly  up  the  flagged  path. 

It  must  be  owned  that  Phillis's  first  feelings  were 
not  wholly  pleasurable.  Nan  had  gone  out ;  an 
invalid  lady  staying  at  Seaview  Cottage  had  sent 
for  a  dressmaker  rather  hurriedly,  and  Miss  Milner 
had  of  course  recommended  them.  Nan  had  gone 
at  once,  and,  as  Dulce  looked  pale,  she  had  taken 
her  with  her  for  a  walk.  They  might  not  be  back 
for  another  hour;  and  a  tete-a-tete  with  Mrs. 
Cheyne,  after  their  last  interview,  was  rather  for- 
midable. 

Dorothy  preceded  her  with  a  parcel  which  she 
deposited  rather  gingerly  on  the  table.  As  Mrs. 


282  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Cheyne  entered  the  room  she  looked  at  Phillis  in  a 
cool,  off-hand  manner. 

"I  am  come  on  business,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
nod.  "How  do  you  do,  Miss  Challoner?  You  are 
looking  rather  pale,  I  think."  And  then  her  keen 
glance  traveled  round  the  room. 

The  girl  flushed  a  little  over  this  abruptness,  but 
she  did  not  lose  her  courage. 

"Is  this  the  dress?"  she  asked,  opening  the 
parcel;  but  her  fingers  would  tremble  a  little,  in 
spite  of  her  will.  And  then,  as  the  rich  folds  of  the 
black  brocade  came  into  view,  she  asked,  in  a  busi- 
ness-like tone,  in  what  style  Mrs.  Cheyne  would 
wish  it  made,  and  how  soon  she  required  it.  To 
all  of  which  Mrs  Cheyne  responded  in  the  same 
dry,  curt  manner;  and  then  the  usual  process  of 
fitting  began. 

Never  had  her  task  seemed  so  tedious  and  dis- 
tasteful to  Phillis.  Even  Mrs.  Trimmings  was  pre- 
ferable to  this;  she  hardly  ventured  to  raise  her 
eyes,  for  fear  of  meeting  Mrs.  Cheyne's  cold,  satir- 
ical glance;  and  yet  all  the  time  she  knew  she  was 
being  watched.  Mrs.  Cheyne's  vigilant  silence 
meant  something. 

If  only  her  mother  would  come  in !  but  she  was 
shelling  pease  for  Dorothy.  To  think  Nan  should 
have  failed  her  on  such  an  occasion !  Even  Dulce 
would  have  been  a  comfort,  though  she  was  so 
easily  frightened.  She  started  almost  nervously 
when  Mrs.  Cheyne  at  last  broke  the  silence: 

"Yes,  you  are  decidedly  paler — a  little  thinner, 
I  think,  and  that  after  only  a  fortnight's  work." 

Phillis  looked  up  a  little  indignantly  at  this,  but 
she  found  Mrs.  Cheyne  was  regarding  her  not  un- 
kindly. 

"I  am  well  enough/'  she  returned,  rather  un- 
graciously; "but  we  are  not  used  to  so  much  con- 
finement, and  the  weather  is  hot.  We  shall  grow 
accustomed  to  it  in  time  " 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  283 

<-  You  think  restlessness  is  easily  subdued? '  with 
a  sneer. 

44 No,  but  I  believe  it  can  be  controlled,"  replied 
poor  Phillis,  who  suffered  more  than  any  one 
guessed  from  this  restraint  on  her  sweet  freedom. 
44 Mrs.  Cheyne  was  right;  even  in  this  short  time 
she  was  certainly  paler  and  thinner. 

44 You  mean  to  persevere,  then,  in  your  moral 
suicide?" 

44  We  mean  to  persevere  in  our  duty,"  corrected 
Phillis/as  she  pinned  up  a  sleeve. 

44Rather  a  high  moral  tone  fora  dressmaker  to 
take;  don't  you  think  so?"  returned  Mrs.  Cheyne, 
ki  a  voice  Archie  hated.  The  woman  certainly 
had  a  double  nature ;  there  was  a  twist  in  her  some- 
where. 

This  was  too  much  for  Phillis ;  she  fired  up  in  a 
moment. 

4*Why  should  not  dressmakers  take  a  high  moral 
tone?  You  make  me  feel  glad  I  am  one  when  you 
talk  like  that.  This  is  our  ambition — Nan's  and 
mine,  for  Dulce  is  too  young  to  think  much  about 
it — to  show  by  our  example  that  there  is  no  degra- 
dation in  work.  Oh?  i*  is  hard!  First  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  comes,  and  talks  to  us  as  though  we  were 
doing  wrong;  and  then  you,  to  cry  down  our  honest 
labor,  and  call  it  suicHe?  Is  it  suicide  to  work  with 
these  hands,  that  God  has  made  clever,  for  my 
mother?"  cried  Phillis,  and  her  great  gray  eyes 
filled  up  with  sudden  tears. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  did  not  look  displeased  at  the  girl's 
outburst.  If  she  had  led  up  to  the  point,  she  could 
not  have  received  it  more  calmly. 

"There,  there!  you  need  not  excite  yourself, 
child!"  she  said,  more  gently.  44 1  only  wanted  to 
know  what  you  would  say.  So  Miss  Mewlstone  has 
been  to  you,  I  hear? — and  Miss  Middleton,  too?  but 
that's  her  benevolence.  Of  course  Miss  Mattie 
comes  out  of  curiosity.  How  I  do  detest  a  fussy 
woman,  with  a  tongue  that  chatters  faster  than  a 


284  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

purling  brook!  What  do  you  say?  No  harm  in 
her?"  for  Phillis  had  muttered  something  to  this 
effect.  <4Oh,  that  is  negative  praise!  I  like  people 
to  have  a  little  harm  in  them;  it  is  so  much  more 
amusing. " 

"I  can  not  say  I  am  of  your  opinion,"  returned 
Phillis,  coldly;  she  was  rather  ashamed  of  her  fit  of 
enthusiasm,  and  cross  in  consequence. 

"  My  dear,  I  always  thought  Lucifer  must  have 
been  rather  an  interesting  person."  Then,  as 
Phillis  looked  scandalized  and  drew  herself  up,  she 
said,  in  a  funny  voice:  "Now,  don't  tell  your 
mother  what  I  said,  or  she  will  think  me  an  im- 
proper character;  and  I  want  to  be  introduced  to 
her/' 

"You  want  to  be  introduced  to  my  mother!"  Phil- 
lis could  hardly  believe  her  ears.  Certainly  Mrs. 
Cheyne  was  a  most  inexplicable  person. 

"Dressmakers  don't  often  have  mothers,  do 
they?"  returned  Mrs.  Cheyne,  with  a  laugh;  "at 
least,  they  are  never  on  view.  I  suppose  they  are 
in  the  back  premises  doing  something  " 

"Shelling  pease,  for  example,"  replied  Phillis, 
roused  to  mischief  by  this:  "that  is  mother's  work 
this  morning.  Dorothy  is  old  and  single-handed, 
and  needs  all  the  help  we  can  give  her.  Oh,  yes! 
I  will  take  you  to  her  at  once. " 

"Indeed  you  must  not,  if  it  will  inconvenience 
her,"  returned  Mrs.  Cheyne,  drawing  back  a  little 
at  this.  She  was  full  of  curiosity  to  see  the  mother 
of  these  singular  girls,  but  she  did  not  wish  to 
have  her  illusion  too  roughly  dispelled;  and  the 
notion  of  Mrs.  Challoner's  homely  employment 
grated  a  little  on  the  feelings  of  the  fine  lady  who 
had  never  done  anything  useful  in  her  life. 

"Oh,  nothing  puts  mother  out,"  returned  Phillis, 
in  an  indifferent  tone.  The  old  spirit  of  fun  was 
waking  up  in  her,  and  she  led  the  way  promptly  to 
the  parlor. 

"Mother,  Mrs.  Cheyne  wishes  to  see  you,"   she 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  285 

announced,  in  a  most  matter-of-fact  voice,  as 
though  that  lady  were  a  daily  visitor. 

Mrs.  Challoner  looked  up  in  a  little  surprise.  One 
of  Dorothy's  rough  aprons  was  tied  over  her  nice 
black  gown,  and  the  yellow  earthenware  bowl  was 
on  her  lap.  Phillis  took  up  some  of  the  green 
pods  and  began  playing  with  them. 

4  *  Will  you  excuse  my  rising?  with  a  smile  that 
was  almost  as  charming  as  Nan's;  and  she  held  out 
a  white  soft  hand  to  her  visitor. 

The  perfect  ease  of  her  manner,  the  absence  of 
all  flurry,  produced  an  instant  effect  on  Mrs. 
Cheyne.  For  a  moment  she  stood  as  though  at  a 
loss  to  explain  her  intrusion,  but  the  next  min- 
ute one  of  her  rare,  sunshiny  smiles  crossed  her 
face. 

44 1  must  seem  impertinent,  but  your  daughters 
have  interested  me  so  much  that  I  was  anxious  to 
see  their  mother.  But  I  ought  to  apologize  for 
disturbing  you  so  early." 

44 Not  at  all;  all  hours  are  the  same  to  me.  We 
are  always  glad  to  see  our  friends;  are  we  not, 
Phillis?  My  dear,  I  wish  you  would  carry  these 
away  to  Dorothy  and  ask  her  to  finish  them. " 

44 Oh,  no!  pray  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  returned 
Mrs.  Cheyne,  eagerly.  44  You  must  not  punish  me  in 
this  way.  Let  me  help  you.  Indeed,  I  am  sure  I 
can,  if  I  only  tried."  And,  to  Phillis's  intense 
amusement,  Mrs.  Cheyne  drew  off  her  delicate 
French  gloves,  and  in  another  moment  both  ladies 
were  seated  close  together,  shelling  pease  into  the 
same  pan,  and  talking  as  though  they  had  known 
each  other  for  years. 

44Oh,  it  was  too  delicious!"  exclaimed  Phillis, 
when  she  had  retailed  this  interview  for  Nan's  and 
Dulce's  benefit.  44I  knew  mother  would  behave 
beautifully.  If  I  had  taken  the  Princess  of  Wales 
in  to  see  her,  she  would  not  have  had  a  word  of 
apology  for  her  apron,  though  it  was  a  horrid  coarse 
thing  of  Dorothy's.  She  would  just  have  smiled 


286  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

at  her  as  she  did  at  Mrs.  Cheyne.  Mother's  behav- 
ior is  always  lovely." 

44 Darling  old  mammie!"  put  in  Dulce, rapturously, 
at  this  point. 

"I  made  some  excuse  and  left  them  together, 
because  I  could  see  Mrs.  Cheyne  was  dying  to  get 
rid  of  me;  and  I  am  always  amiable,  and  like  to 
please  people.  Oh,  it  was  the  funniest  sight,  I 
assure  you! — Mrs.  Cheyne  with  her  long  fingers 
blazing  with  diamond  rings,  and  the  pease  rolling 
down  her  silk  dress;  and  mother  just  going  on 
with  her  business  in  her  quiet  way.  Oh,  I  had 
such  a  laugh  when  I  came  back  in  the  work-room!" 

It  cost  Phillis  some  trouble  to  be  properly  demure 
when  Mrs.  Cheyne  came  into  the  work-room  some 
time  afterward  in  search  of  her.  Perhaps  her  mis- 
chievous eyes  betrayed  her,  for  Mrs.  Cheyne  shook 
her  head  at  her  in  pretended  rebuke: 

44 Ah,  I  see;  you  will  persist  in  treating  things 
like  a  comedy.  Well,  that  is  better  than  putting 
on  tragedy  airs  and  making  ourselves  miserable. 
Now  I  have  seen  your  mother,  I  am  not  quite  so 
puzzled." 

"Indeed!"  and  Phillis  fixed  her  eyes  innocently 
on  Mrs.  Cheyne's  face. 

44 No;  but  I  am  not  going  to  make  you  vain  by 
telling  you  what  I  think  of  her;  indiscriminate 
praise  is  not  wholesome.  Now,  when  are  you  com- 
ing to  see  me? — that  is  the  point  in  question." 

44Dorothy  will  bring  home  your  dress  on  Satur- 
day," replied  Phillis,  a  little  dryly.  44If  it  requires 
alteration,  perhaps  you  will  let  me  know,  and  of 
course  I  will  come  up  to  the  White  House  at  any 
time." 

44  But  I  do  not  mean  to  wait  for  that.  You  are 
misunderstanding  me  purposely,  Miss  Challoner. 
I  want  you  to  come  and  talk  to  me  one  evening — 
any  evening.  No  one  but  Miss  Mewlstone  will  be 
there." 

44Oh,  no!"  responded  Phillis,  suddenly   turning 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.      ,  287 

very  red;  "I  do  not  think  that  would  do  at  all,  Mrs. 
Cheyne.  I  do  not  mean  to  be  rude  or  ungrateful 
for  your  kindness,  but — but — "  Here  the  girl 
stammered  and  broke  down. 

44  You  wish,  then,  to  confine  our  intercourse  to  a 
purely  business  relation?"  asked  Mrs.  Cheyne,  and 
her  voice  had  a  tone  of  the  old  bitterness. 

44  Would  it  not  be  better,  under  the  circumstances? 
Forgive  me  if  I  am  too  proud,  but — " 

44 Oh,  you  are  proud,  terribly  proud!"  returned 
Mrs.  Cheyne,  taking  up  her  words  before  she  could 
complete  her  sentence.  44  You  owe  me  a  grudge  for 
what  I  said  that  night,  and  now  you  are  making  me 
pay  the  penalty.  Well,  I  am  not  meek;  there  is 
not  a  human  being  living  to  whom  I  would  sue  for 
friendship.  If  I  were  starving  for  a  kind  word  I 
would  sooner  die  than  ask  for  one.  You  see,  I  am 
proud  too,  Miss  Challoner. " 

44Oh,  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you,"  returned  Phil- 
lis,  distressed  at  this,  but  determined  not  to  yield  an 
inch  or  bend  to  the  sudden  caprice  of  this  extraor- 
dinary woman,  who  had  made  her  suffer  so  once. 

44To  be  hurt,  one  must  have  feelings,"  returned 
this  singular  person.  "Do  not  be  afraid,  I  shall 
not  attempt  to  shake  your  resolution;  if  you  come 
to  me  now  it  must  be  of  your  own  free  will." 

<4And  if  I  come,  what  then?"  asked  Phillis,  stand- 
ing very  straight  and  stiff,  for  she  would  not  be 
patronized. 

44 It  you  come  you  will  be  welcome,"  returned 
Mrs.  Cheyne;  and  then,  with  a  grave  inclination  of 
the  head>  she  swept  out  of  the  room. 


288  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

A    DARK     HOUR. 

"I  should  go  one  evening,  if  1  were  you;  it  is 
easy  to  see  that  Mrs.  Cheyne  has  taken  a  fancy  to 
you,"  said  Nan,  who  was  much  interested  by  this 
recital;  but  to  this  Phillis  replied,  with  a  very 
decided  shake  of  the  head: 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind;  I  was  not  made 
to  be  a  fine  lady's  protege.  If  she  patronized  me, 
I  should  grow  savage  and  show  my  teeth ;  and,  as 
I  have  no  desire  to  break  the  peace,  we  had  better 
remain  strangers.  Dear  Magdalene  certainly  has 
a  temper!"  finished  Phillis,  with  a  wicked  little 
sneer. 

Nan  tried  to  combat  this  resolution,  and  used  a 
great  many  arguments;  she  was  anxious  that  Phil- 
lis should  avail  herself  of  this  sudden  fancy  on  the 
part  of  Mrs.  Cheyne  to  lift  herself  and  perhaps  all 
of  them  into  society  with  their  equals.  Nan's  good 
sense  told  her  that  though  at  present  the  novelty 
and  excitement  of  their  position  prevented  them 
from  realizing  the  full  extent  of  their  isolation,  in 
time  it  must  weigh  on  them  very  heavily,  and 
especially  on  Phillis,  who  was  bright  and  clever 
and  liked  society;  but  all  her  words  were  powerless 
against  Phillis's  stubbornness;  to  the  White  House 
she  could  not  and  would  not  go. 

But  one  evening  she  changed  her  mind  very  sud- 
denly, when  a  note  from  Miss  Mewlstone  reached 
her  A  gardener's  boy  Drought  it.  "It  is  very 
particular,  and  was  to  be  delivered  immediate  to 
ths  young  lady,"  he  observed,  holding  the  missive 
between  a  very  grimy  finger  and  thumb. 

*'Mv  DEAR  YOUNG  LADY, — Pride  is  all  very  well, 
but  charity  is  often  best  in  the  long  run,  and  a  little 


.       NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  289 

kindness  to  a  suffering  human  being  is  never  out 
of  place  in  a  young  creature  like  you. 

4  *  Poor  Magdalene  has  been  very  sadly  for  days, 
and  I  have  got  it  into  my  stupid  old  head,  that  is 
always  fancying  things,  that  she  has  been  watching 
for  folks  who  have  been  too  proud  to  come,  though 
she  would  die  sooner  than  tell  them  so;  but  that  is 
her  way,  poor  dear ! 

"It  is  ill  to  wake  at  nights  with  nothing  but  sad 
thoughts  for  company,  and  it  is  ill  wearing  out  the 
long  days  with  only  a  silly  old  body  to  cheer  one 
up;  and  when  there  is  nothing  fresh  to  say,  and 
nothing  to  expect,  and  not  a  footstep  or  a  voice  to 
break  the  silence,  then  it  seems  to  me  that  a  young 
voice,  that  is,  a.  kind  voice,  would  be  welcome. 
Take  this  hint,  my  dear,  and  keep  my  counsel,  for 
I  am  only  a  silly  old  woman,  as  she  often  says. 

44  Yours, 
W(  "BATHSHEBA  MEWLSTONE.  " 

"Oh,  I  must  go  now!"  observed  Phillis,  in  an 
embarrassed  voice,  as  she  laid  this  singular  note 
before  Nan. 

"Yes,  dear;  and  you  had  better  put  on  your  hat 
at  once,  and  Dulce  and  I  will  walk  with  you  as  far 
as  the  gate,  It  is  sad  for  you  to  miss  the  scramble 
on  the  shore;  but,  when  other  people  really  want 
us,  I  feel  as  though  it  were  a  direct  call,"  finished 
Nan,  solemnly. 

4tl  am  afraid  there  is  a  storm  coming  up/'  re- 
plied Phillis,  who  had  been  oppressed  all  day  by 
the  heavy,  thundery  atmosphere.  She  had  looked 
so  heated  and  weary  that  Nan  had  proposed  a  walk 
by  the  shore.  Work  was  pouring  upon  them  from 
all  sides;  the  townspeople,  envious  of  Mrs.  Trim- 
mings's  stylish  new  dress,  were  besieging  the 
Friary  with  orders,  and  the  young  dressmakers 
would  have  been  literally  overwhelmed  with  their 
labors,  only  that  Nan,  with  admirable  foresight 

f   19  Girls. 


290  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GiRLS. 

insisted  on  taking  in  no  more  work  than  they  felt 
themselves  able  to  compute. 

"No,"  she  would  say  to  some  disappointed  custo- 
mer, "our  hands  are  full  just  now,  and  we  cannot 
undertake  any  more  orders  at  present;  we  will  not 
promise  more  than  we  cannot  perform.  Come  to 
me  again  in  a  fortnight's  time,  and  we  will  will- 
ingly make  your  dress,  but  now  it  is  impossible." 
And  in  most  cases  the  dress  was  brought  punctually 
at  the  time  appointed. 

Phillis  used  to  grumble  a  little  at  this. 

"You  ought  not  to  refuse  orders,  Nan,"  she  said, 
rather  fretfully,  once.  "Any  other  dressmaker 
would  sit  up  half  the  night  rather  than  disappoint  a 
customer. " 

"My  dear,"  Nan  returned,  in  her  elder-sisterly 
voice,  which  had  always  a  great  effect  on  Phillis, 
"I  wonder  what  use  Dulce  and  you  would  be  if  you 
sat  up  sewing  half  the  night,  and  drinking  strong 
tea  to  keep  yourselves  awake!  No,  there  shall  be 
no  burning  the  candle  at  both  ends  in  this  fashion. 
Please  God,  we  will  keep  our  health  and  our  custo- 
mers; and  no  one  in  their  senses  could  call  us  idle. 
Why,  we  are  quite  the  fashion!  Mrs.  Squails  told 
me  yesterday  that  every  one  in  Hadleigh  was  wild 
to  have  a  gown  made  by  the  'lady  dressmakers/  " 

"Oh,  I  dare  say!"  replied  Phillis,  crossly,  for  the 
poor  thing  was  so  hot  and  tired  that  she  could  have 
cried  from  pure  weariness  and  vexation  of  spirit; 
"but  we  shall  not  be  the  fashion  long  when  the 
novelty  wears  off.  People  will  call  us  independent, 
and  get  tired  of  us;  and  no  wonder,  if  they  are  to 
wait  for  their  dresses  in  this  way.' 

Nan's  only  answer  was  to  look  at  Phillis's  pale 
face  in  a  pitying  way;  and  then  she  took  her  hand, 
and  led  her  to  the  corner,  where  her  mother's  Bible 
always  lay,  and  then  with  ready  fingers  turned  to 
the  well-known  passage,  "Man  goeth  forth  unto 
his  work  and  to  his  labor  unto  the  evening. " 

"Well,  Nan,  what  then?" 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  291 

"Evening  is  for  rest — for  refreshment  of  mind 
and  body;  I  will  not  have  it  turned  into  a  time  of 
toil.  I  know  you,  Phillis;  you  would  work  till 
your  poor  fingers  got  thin,  and  your  spirits  were  all 
flattened  out,  and  every  nerve  was  jarring  and  set 
on  edge;  and  you  would  call  that  duty!  No,  darl- 
ing— never!  Dulce  shall  keep  her  roses,  and  we 
will  have  battledoor  and  shuttlecock  every  even;ng, 
but,  if  I  have  to  keep  the  key  of  the  work-room  ij. 
my  pocket,  you  and  Dulce  shall  never  enter  it 
after  tea."  And  Nan's  good  sense,  as  usual,  carried 
the  day. 

Phillis  would  much  rather  have  joined  her  sisters 
in  their  walk  than  have  turned  in  at  the  gloomy 
lodge  gates. 

"  'All  ye  who  enter  here,  leave  hope  behind/  " 

she  quoted,  softly,  as  she  waved  her  hand  to 
Nan. 

The  servant  who  admitted  her  looked  a  little 
dubious  over  his  errand. 

4 'His  mistress  was  in  her  room,"  he  believed, 
44  and  was  far  too  unwell  to  see  visitors.  He  would 
tell  Miss  Mewlstone,  if  the  young  lady  liked  to  wait 
but  he  was  sure  it  was  no  use" — all  very  civilly  said. 
And  as  Phillis  persisted  in  her  intention  of  seeing 
Mrs.  Cheyne,  if  possible,  he  ushered  her  into  the 
library,  a  gloomy-looking  room,  with  closed  blinds, 
one  of  which  he  drew  up,  and  then  went  in  search 
of  Miss  Mewlstone. 

Phillis  did  not  find  her  surroundings  particularly 
cheerful  The  air  was  darkened  by  the  approaching 
storm.  A  sullen  cloud  hung  over  the  sky.  The 
library  windows  opened  upon  the  shrubberies. 
Here  the  trees  were  planted  so  thickly  that  their 
shade  obscrred  much  of  the  light.  The  room  was 
so  dark  that  she  could  only  dimly  discern  the  hand- 
some bindings  of  the  books  in  the  carved  oak  book- 
cases. The  whole  of  the  furniture  seemed  somber 
and  massive.  The  chair  that  the  footman  had  placed 


202  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

for  her  was  covered  with  violet  velvet,  and  was  in 
harmony  with  the  rest  of  the  furniture. 

Dreary  as  the  room  looked,  it  was  nothing  to  the 
shrubbery  walk.  A  narrow,  winding  path  seemed 
to  vanish  into  utter  darkness.  In  some  places  the 
trees  met  overhead,  so  closely  had  they  grown. 

"If  I  were  the  mistress  of  the  White  House," 
Phillis  said  to  herself,  "I  would  cut  every  one  of 
those  trees  down.  They  must  make  this  part  of  the 
house  quite  unhealthy.  It  really  looks  like  a  'ghost 
walk*  that  one  reads  about."  But  ccarcely  had 
these  thoughts  passed  through  her  mind  when  she 
uttered  a  faint  cry  of  alarm.  The  dark  room,  the 
impending  storm,  and  her  own  overwrought  feel- 
ings were  making  her  nervous;  but  actually, 
through  the  gloom,  she  could  see  a  figure  in  white 
approaching. 

In  another  moment  she  would  have  sought  refuge 
in  the  hall,  but  contempt  at  her  own  cowardice  kept 
her  rooted  to  the  spot. 

"She  was  an  utter  goose  to  be  so  startled!  It 
was — yes,  of  course  it  was  Mrs.  Cheyne.  She  could 
see  her  more  plainly  now.  She  would  step  through 
the  window  and  meet  her." 

Phillis's  feelings  of  uneasiness  had  not  quite  van- 
ished. The  obscurity  was  confusing,  and  invested 
everything  with  an  unnatural  effect.  Even  Mrs. 
Cheyne 's  figure,  coming  out  from  the  dark  back- 
ground, seemed  strange  and  unfamiliar.  Phillis 
had  always  seen  her  in  black;  but  now  she  wore  a 
white  gown,  fashioned  loosely,  like  a  wrapper,  and 
her  hair,  which  ai  other  times  had  been  most  care- 
fully arranged,  was  now  strained  tightly  and  unbe- 
comingly from  her  face,  which  looked  pallid  and 
drawn.  She  started  violently  when  she  saw  Phillis 
coming  toward  her,  and  seemed  inclined  to  draw 
back  and  retrace  her  steps.  It  evidently  cost  her  a 
strong  effort  to  recover  herself.  She  seeiued  to 
conquer  her  reluctance  with  difficulty. 

"So  you  have  come  at  last,   Miss  Challoner,"  she 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  298 

said,  fixing  her  eyes,  which  looked  unnaturally 
bright,  on  Phillis.  Her  voice  was  cold,  almost 
harsh,  and  her  countenance  expressed  no  pleasure. 
The  hand  she  held  out  was  so  limp  and  cold  that 
Phillis  relinquished  it  hastily. 

"You  said  that  I  should  be  welcome,"  she  fal- 
tered, and  trying  not  to  appear  alarmed.  She  was 
too  young  and  healthy  to  understand  the  meaning 
of  the  word  hysteria,  or  to  guess  at  the  existence  of 
nervous  maladies  that  make  some  people's  lives  a 
long  torment  to  them.  Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Cheyne's 
singular  aspect  filled  her  with  vague  fear.  It  did 
not  enter  into  her  mind  to  connect  the  coming 
storm  with  Mrs.  Cheyne's  condition,  until  she  hinted 
at  it  herself. 

44 Oh,  yes,  you  are  welcome,"  she  responded, 
wearily.  **I  have  looked  for  you  evening  after 
evening,  but  you  chose  to  come  with  the  storm.  It 
is  a  pity,  perhaps;  but  then  you  did  riot  know." 

44 What  would  you  have  me  know?"  asked  Phillis, 
timidly. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  shrugged  her  shoulders  a  little 
flightily. 

44Oh,  you  are  young!"  she  returned;  44you  do  not 
understand  what  nerves  mean;  you  sleep  sweetly 
of  a  night,  and  have  no  bad  dreams;  it  does  not 
matter  to  you  happy  people  if  the  air  is  full  of  sun- 
shine or  surcharged  with  electricity.  For  me,  when 
the  sun  ceases  to  shine  I  am  in  despair.  Fogs  find 
me  brooding.  An  impending  storm  suffocates  me, 
and  yet  tears  me  to  pieces  with  restlessness-  it 
drives  me  hither  and  thither  like  a  fallen  leaf.  I 
tire  myself  that  I  may  sleep,  and  yet  I  stare  open- 
eyed  for  hours  together  into  the  darkness.  I  won- 
der sometimes  I  do  not  go  mad.  But  there!  let  us 
walk — let  us  walk."  And  she  made  a  movement 
to  retrace  her  steps;  but  Phillis,  with  a  courage 
for  which  she  commended  herself  afterward,  pulled 
her  back  by  her  hanging  sleeves. 

44 Oh,  not  there!  it  is  not  good  for  any  one  who  is 


294  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

sad  to  walk  in  that  dark  place.  No  wonder  your 
thoughts  are  somber.  Look!  the  heavy  rain-drops 
are  pattering  among  the  leaves.  I  do  not  care  to 
get  wet;  let  us  go  back  to  the  house." 

"Pshaw!  what  does  it  matter  getting  wet?"  she 
returned,  with  a  little  scorn;  but,  nevertheless,  she 
suffered  Phillis  to  take  her  arm  and  draw  her  gently 
toward  the  house.  Only  as  they  came  near  the 
library  window,  she  pointed  to  it  indignantly. 
44  Who  has  dared  to  enter  that  room  or  open  the 
window?  Have  I  not  forbidden  over  and  over  again 
that  that  room  should  be  used?  Do  you  think,"  she 
continued,  in  the  same  excited  way,  "that  I  would 
enter  that  room  to-night  of  all  nights?  Why,  I 
should  hear  his  angry  voice  pealing  in  every  corner! 
It  was  a  good  room  for  echoes;  and  he  could  speak 
loudly  if  he  chose.  Come  away!  there  is  a  door  I 
always  use  that  leads  to  my  private  apartments.  I 
am  no  recluse,  but  in  these  moods  I  do  not  care  to 
show  myself  to  people.  If  you  are  not  afraid,  you 
may  come  with  me,  unless  you  prefer  Miss  Mewl- 
stone's  company." 

4tl  would  rather  go  with  you,"  returned  Phillis, 
gently.  She  could  not  in  truth  say  she  was  not 
afraid;  but  all  the  same  she  must  try  and  soothe 
the  poor  creature  who  was  evidently  enduring  such 
torments  of  mind :  so  she  followed  in  silence  up  the 
broad  oak  staircase. 

A  green-baize  door  admitted  them  into  a  long  and 
somewhat  narrow  coiridor,  lighted  up  by  a  row  of 
high  narrow  windows  set  prettily  with  flower-boxes. 
Here  there  were  several  doors.  Mrs.  Cheyne  paused 
before  one  a  moment. 

"Look  here!  you  shall  see  the  mysteries  of  the 
west  wing.  This  is  my  world:  down-stairs  I  am 
a  different  creature — taciturn,  harsh,  and  prone  to 
sarcasm.  Ask  Mr.  Drummond  what  he  thinks  of 
me ;  but  I  never  could  endure  a  good  young  man- 
especially  that  delicious  compound  of  the  worldling 
and  the  saint — like  the  Reverend  Archibald.  See 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  295 

here,    my  dear:  here  I  am  never  captious  or  say 

naughty  things!" 

She  threw  open  the  door,  and  softly  beckoned  to 
Phillis  to  enter.  It  was  a  large  empty  room — evi- 
dently a  nursery.  Some  canaries  were  twittering 
faintly  in  a  gilded  cage.  There  were  flowers  in  the 
two  windows,  and  in  the  vases  on  the  table:  evi- 
dently some  loving  hands  had  arranged  them  that 
very  morning.  A  large  rocking-horse  occupied  the 
center  of  the  floor ;  a  doll  lay  with  its  face  down- 
ward on  the  crimson  carpet;  a  pile  of  wooden  sol- 
diers strutted  on  their  zigzag  platform — one  or  two 
had  fallen  off;  a  torn  picture-book  had  been  flung 
beside  them. 

44 That  was  my  Janie's  picture-book,"  said  Mrs. 
Cheyne,  mournfully;  "she  was  teaching  her  doll  out 
of  it  just  before  she  was  taken  ill.  Nothing  was 
touched;  by  a  sort  of  inspiration — a  foreboding — I 
do  not  know  what — I  bade  nurse  leave  the  toys  as 
they  were.  *It  is  only  an  interrupted  game:  let  the 
darlings  find  their  toys  as  they  put  them,'  I  said  to 
her  that  morning.  Look  at  the  soldiers;  Bertie 
was  always  for  soldiers — bless  him!" 

Her  manner  had  grown  calmer;  and  she  spoke 
with  such  touching  tenderness  that  tears  came  to 
Phillis's  eyes.  But  Mrs.  Cheyne  never  once  looked 
at  the  girl;  she  lingered  by  the  table  a  moment, 
adjusting  a  leaf  here  and  a  bud  there  in  the  bou- 
quets, and  then  she  opened  an  inner  door  leading 
to  the  night-nursery.  Here  the  associations  were 
still  more  harrowing.  The  cots  stood  side  by  side 
under  a  muslin  canopy,  with  an  alabaster  angel 
between  them;  the  little  night-dress  lay  folded  on 
the  pillows;  on  each  quilt  were  the  scarlet  dressing- 
gown  and  the  pair  of  tiny  slippers:  the  clothes  were 
piled  neatly  on  two  chairs — a  boy's  velvet  tunic  one 
one,  a  girl's  white  frock,  a  little  limp  and  discolored, 
hung  over  the  rails  of  the  other. 

44 Everything  just  the  same!"  murmured  the  poor 
mother.  44Look  here,  my  dear" — with  a  faint 


296  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

smile — "these  are  Bertie's  slippers:  there  is  the 
hole  he  kicked  in  them  when  he  was  in  his  tempers, 
for  my  boy  had  the  Cheyne  temper.  He  was  Her- 
bert's image — his  very  image. "  She  sighed,  paused, 
and  went  on:  "Every  night  I  come  and  sit  beside 
their  beds,  and  then  the  darlings  come  to  me.  I 
can  see  their  faces — oh,  so  plainly! — and  hear  their 
voices.  'Good-night,  dear  mamma!'  they  seem  to 
say  to  me,  only  Bertie's  voice  is  always  the  louder." 

Her  manner  was  becoming  a  little  excited  again: 
only  Phillis  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  gently,  and 
the  touch  seemed  to  soothe  her  like  magic. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  come  here  every  night,"  she 
said,  in  her  sweet,  serious  voice,  from  which  every 
trace  of  fear  had  gone.  "I  think  that  a  beautiful 
idea,  to  come  and  say  your  prayers  beside  one  of 
these  little  beds." 

"To  say  my  prayers — I  pray  beside  my  darlings' 
beds!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cheyne,  in  a  startled  voice. 
"Oh,  no!  I  never  do  that.  God  would  not  hear 
such  prayers  as  mine — never — never!*' 

"Dear'Mrs.  Cheyne,  why  not?"  She  moved  rest- 
lessly away  at  the  question,  and  tried  to  disengage 
herself  from  Phillis's  firm  grasp.  "The  Divine 
Father  hears  all  prayers,"  whispered  the  girl. 

"All — but  not  mine — not  mine,  or  I  should  not 
be  sitting  here  alone.  Do  you  know  my  husband 
left  me  in  anger — that  his  last  words  to  me  were  the 
bitterest  he  ever  spoke?  'Good-bye,  Magdalene; 
you  have  made  my  life  so  wretched  that  1  do  not 
care  if  1  ne^er  live  to  set  foot  in  this  house  again!' 
And  that  to  me — his  wedded  wife,  and  the  mother 
of  his  children — who  loved  him  so.  Oh,  Herbert! 
Herbert!"  and,  covering  her  face,  the  unhappy 
woman  suddenly  burst  into  a  pa,ssion  of  tears. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE   MYSTERIOUS   STRANGER. 

Phillis  kept  a  sad  silence:  not  for  worlds  would 
she  have  checked  the  flow  of  tears  that  must  have 
been  so  healing  to  the  tortured  brain.  Besides, 
what  was  there  that  she,  so  young  and  inexperi- 
enced, could  say  in  the  presence  of  a  grief  so  ter- 
rible, so  overpowering?  The  whole  thing  was  inex- 
plicable to  Phillis.  Why  were  the  outworks  of  con- 
ventionality so  suddenly  thrown  down?  Why  was 
she,  a  stranger,  permitted  to  be  a  witness  of  such  a 
revelation?  As  she  sat  there  speechless  and  sympa- 
thizing, a  faint  sound  reached  her  ear — the  rustle  of 
a  dress  in  the  adjoining  room — footsteps  afterward 
the  door  closed  softly  behind  them.  Phillis  looked 
round  quickly,  but  could  see  nothing;  and  the  same 
instant  a  peal  of  thunder  rolled  over  their  heads. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  started  up  with  a  hysterical  scream, 
and  caught  hold  of  Phillis.  "Come,"  she  said, 
almost  wildly,  "we  will  not  stay  here.  The  chil- 
dren will  not  come  to-night,  for  who  could  hear 
their  voices  in  such  a  storm?  My  little  angels — but 
they  shall  not  see  me  like  this.  Come,  come!" 
And  taking  the  girl  by  the  arm,  she  almost  dragged 
her  from  the  room,  and  led  the  way  with  rapid  and 
disordered  footsteps  to  a  large  luxurious  chamber, 
furnished  evidently  as  a  dressing-room,  and  only 
divided  from  the  sleeping-room  by  a  curtained 
archway. 

As  Mrs.  Cheyne  threw  herself  down  in  an  arm- 
chair and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  the  curtain  was 
drawn  back,  and  Miss  Mewlstone  came  in  with  an 
anxious,  almost  frightened  expression  on  her  good 
natured  countenance.  She  hurried  up  to  Mrsu 
Cheyne,  and  took  her  IP  ^er  arms  as  though  she 
were  a  child. 

20  Other  Girls 


298  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"Now,  Magdalene,  my  dear,"  she  said,  coaxingly, 
"you  will  try  to  be  good  and  command  yourself 
before  this  young  lady.  Look  at  her :  she  is  not  a 
bit  afraid  of  the  storm — are  you,  Miss  Challoner? 
No,  just  so;  you  are  far  too  sensible." 

4 'Oh,  that  is  what  you  always  tell  me,"  returned 
Mrs.  Cheyne,  wrenching  herself  free  with  some 
vilence.  "Be  sensible — be  good — when  I  am  nearly 
mad  with  the  oppression  and  suffocation,  here,  and 
here,"  pointing  to  her  head  and  breast.  "Common- 
places, commonplaces;  as  well  stop  a  deluge  with  a 
tea-cup.  Oh,  you  are  an  old  fool,  Barby:  you  will 
never  learn  wisdom." 

"My  poor  lamb!  Barby  never  minds  one  word 
you  say  when  you  are  like  this." 

"Oh,  I  will  beg  your  pardon  to-morrow,  or  when 
the  thunder  stops.  Hark!  there  it  is  again,"  cow- 
ering down  in  her  chair.  "Can't  you  pray  for  it  to 
cease,  Barby?  Oh,  it  is  too  horrible!  Don't  you 
recollect  the  night  he  rode  away — right  into  the 
storm,  into  the  very  teeth  of  the  storm?  4 Good-bye, 
Magdalene;  who  knows  when  we  may  meet  again?' 
and  I  never  looked  at  him,  never  kissed  him,  never 
broke  the  silence  by  one  word;  and  the  thunder 
came,  and  he  was  gone,"  beating  the  air  with  her 
hands. 

"Oh,  hush,  my  dear,  hush!  Let  me  read  to  you 
a  little,  and  the  fever  will  soon  pass.  You  are 
frightening  the  poor  young  lady  with  your  wild  talk, 
and  no  wonder!" 

"Pshaw!  who  minds  the  girl?  Let  her  go  or  stop; 
what  do  I  care?  What  is  the  world  to  me,  when  I 
am  tormented  like  this?  Three  years,  four  years — 
more  than  a  thousand  days — of  this  misery!  O, 
Barby!  do  you  think  I  have  been  punished  enough? 
do  you  think  where  he  is,  up  in  heaven  with  the  chil- 
dren, that  he  forgives  and  pities  me,  who  was  such 
a  bad  wife  to  him?" 

As  Miss  Mewlstone  pauseu  a  moment  to  wipe  the 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  269 

tears  that  were  flowing  over  her  old  cheeks,  Phillis's 
voice  came  to  her  relief . 

"Oh,  can  you  doubt  it?"  she  said,  in  much  agita- 
tion. "Dear  Mrs.  Cheyne,  can  you  have  an  instant's 
doubt?  Do  you  think  the  dead  carry  all  these  paltry 
earthly  feelings  into  the  bright  place  yonder? 
Forgive  you — oh,  there  is  no  need  of  forgiveness 
there;  he  will  only  be  loving  you — he,  and  the  chil- 
dren, too." 

"God  bless  you!"  whispered  Miss  Mewlstone. 
41  Hush,  that  is  enough!  Go,  my  dear,  go,  and  i. 
will  come  to  you  presently.  Magdalene,  put  your 
po'or  head  down  here:  I  have  thought  of  something 
that  will  do  you  good/'  She  waved  Phillis  away 
almost  impatiently,  and  laid  the  poor  sufferer's  head 
on  her  bosom,  shielding  it  from  the  flashes  that 
darted  through  the  room.  Phillis  could  see  her 
bending  over  her,  and  her  voice  was  as  tender  as 
though  she  were  soothing  a  sick  infant. 

Phillis  was  trembling  with  agitation,  as  she  stole 
down  the  dark  corridor.  Never  in  her  happy  young 
life  had  she  witnessed  or  imagined  such  a  scene. 
The  wild  words,  the  half-maddened  gestures,  the 
look  of  agony  stamped  on  the  pale,  almost  distorted 
features,  would  haunt  her  for  many  a  day.  Oh, 
how  the  poor  soul  must  have  suffered  before  she 
lost  self-control  and  balance  like  this! 

It  was  not  the  death  ot  her  children  that  had  so 
utterly  unnerved  her.  It  must  have  been  that  bit- 
ter parting  with  her  husband,  and  the  remembrance 
of  angry  words  never  to  be  atoned  for  in  this  life, 
that  was  cankering  the  root  of  her  peace,  and  that 
brought  about  these  moods  of  despair. 

Phillis  thought  of  Coleridge's  lines: 

"And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 

Doth  work  like  madness  on  the  brain" — 

as  she  took  refuge  in  the  dim  drawing-room.  Here, 
at  least,  there  were  signs  of  human  life  and  occupa- 
tion. A  little  tea-table  had  been  set  in  one  win- 


800  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

* ' 

Sow,  though  the  tea  was  cold.  The  greyhounds 
came  and  laid  their  slender  noses  on  her  gown,  and 
one  small  Italian  one  coiled  himself  up  on  her  lap. 
Miss  Mewlstone's  work-basket  stood  open,  and  a 
tortoise-shell  kitten  had  helped  itself  to  a  ball  of 
wool  and  was  busily  unwinding  it.  The  dogs  were 
evidently  frightened  at  the  storm,  for  they  all  gath- 
ered round  Phillis,  shivering  and  whining,  as  though 
missing  their  mistress;  and  she  had  much  ado  to 
comfort  them,  though  she  loved  animals  and  under- 
stood their  dumb  language  better  than  most  people. 

It  was  not  so  very  long,  and  yet  it  seemed  hours 
before  Miss  Mewlstone  came  down  to  her. 

44 Are  you  here,  my  dear?"  she  asked,  in  a  loud 
whisper,  for  the  room  was  dark.  "Ah!  just  so. 
We  must  have  lights,  and  I  must  give  you  a  glass 
of  wine  or  a  nice  hot  cup  of  coffee."  And,  notwith- 
standing Phillis's  protest  that  she  never  took  wine, 
and  was  not  in  need  of  anything,  Miss  Mewlstone 
rang  the  bell,  and  desired  the  footman  to  bring  in 
the  lamp.  "And  tell  Bishop  to  send  up  some  nice 
hot  coffee  and  sandwiches  as  soon  as  possible.  For 
young  people  never  know  what  they  want,  and  you 
are  just  worried  and  tired  to  death  with  all  you 
have  gone  through —not  being  an  old  woman  and 
seasoned  to  it  like  me,"  went  on  the  good  creature, 
and  she  patted  Phillis's  cheek  encouragingly  as  she 
spoke. 

"But  how  is  she?  Oh,  thank  God.  the  storm  has 
lulled  at  last!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  breathlessly. 

44 Oh,  jres;  the  storm  is  over.  We  have  reason  to 
dread  storms  in  this  house,"  returned  Miss  Mewl- 
stone, gravely.  "She  was  quite  exhausted,  and  let 
Charlotte  and  me  help  her  to  bed.  Now  she  has 
had  her  composing  draught,  and  Charlotte  will  sit 
by  her  till  I  go  up.  I  always  watch  by  her  all  night 
after  one  of  these  attacks." 

"Is  it  a  nervous  attack?"  asked  Phillis,  timidly, 
for  she  felt  she  was  treading  on  delicate  ground. 

44 1  believe  Doctor  Parkes  calls  it  hysteria,"  replied 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  301 

Miss  Mewlstone,  hesitating  a  little.  "Ah,  we  have 
sad  times  with  her.  You  heard  what  she  said,  poor 
dear;  she  has  been  sorely  tried." 

"Was  not  her  husband  good  to  her,  then?" 

"I  am  sure  he  meant  to  be  kind,"  returned  Miss 
Mewlstone,  sorrowfully,  "for  he  loved  her  dearly; 
but  he  was  passionate  and  masterful,  and  was  one 
that  would  have  his  way.  As  long  as  it  was  only 
courtship,  he  worshiped  the  ground  she  walked 
upon,  as  the  saying  is.  But  poor  Magdalene  was 
not  a  good  wife.  She  was  cold  when  she  ought  to 
have  been  caressing,  stubborn  when  she  might  have 
yielded;  and  sarcasm  never  yet  healed  a  wound. 
Ah,  here  comes  your  coffee!  Thank  you,  Evans. 
Now,  my  dear,  you  must  just  eat  and  drink,  and  put 
some  color  into  those  pale  cheeks.  Scenes  like 
these  are  not  good  for  young  creatures  like  you. 
But  when  Magdalene  is  in  those  moods,  she  would 
n  t  care  if  the  whole  world  listened  to  her.  To- 
morrow she  will  be  herself,  and  remember  and  be 
ashamed;  and  then  you  must  not  mind  if  she  be 
harder  and  colder  than  ever.  She  will  say  bitter 
things  all  the  more,  because  she  is  angered  at  her 
own  want  of  self-control. " 

"I  can  understand  that:  that  is  just  as  I  should 
feel,"  returned  Phillis,  shuddering  a  little  at  the 
idea  of  encountering  Mrs.  Cheyne's  keen-edged 
sarcasms.  "She  will  not  like  to  see  me  any  more; 
she  will  think  I  had  no  right  to  witness  such  a 
scene." 

"It  is  certainly  a  pity  that  I  wrote  that  note," 
returned  Miss  Mewlstone,  reflectively.  "I  hoped 
that  you  would  turn  her  thoughts,  and  that  we 
might  avert  the  usual  nervous  paroxysm.  When  I 
opened  the  door  and  saw  you  sitting  together  so 
peacefully  beside  the  children's  beds,  I  expected  a 
milder  mood;  but  it  was  the  thunder.  Poor  Mag- 
dalene! she  has  never  been  able  to  control  herself . 
in  a  storm  since  the  evening  Herbert  left  her,  and 
we  went  in  and  found  her  lying  insensibly  in  tfoe 


302  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

library,  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  worst  storms  I 
have  ever  witnessed." 

"That  was  when  he  said  those  cruel  words  to 
her?"  ejaculated  Phillis. 

"Yes.  Did  she  repeat  them?  How  often  I  have 
begged  her  to  forget  them,  and  to  believe  that  he 
repented  of  them  before  an  hour  was  over!  Ah, 
well!  the  sting  of  death  lies  in  this:  if  she  had  said 
one  word,  one  little  word,  she  would  be  a  different 
woman,  in  spite  of  the  children's  death.  God's 
strokes  are  less  cruel  than  men's  strokes;  the  reed 
may  be  bruised  by  them,  but  is  not  broken.  She 
had  a  long  illness  after  the  children  were  gone;  it 
was  too  much — too  much  for  any  woman's  heart  to 
bear.  You  see,  she  wanted  her  husband  to  comfort 
her.  Doctor  Parkes  feared  for  her  brain,  but  we 
pulled  her  through.  Ah,  just  so,  my  dear;  we 
pulled  her  through!"  finished  Miss  Mawlstone,  with 
a  Jigh. 

"Oh,  how  good  you  are  to  her!  she  is  happy  to 
have  such  a  friend!"  observed  Phillis, .enthusiast- 
ically. 

Miss  Mewlstone  shook  her  head,  and  a  tear  rolled 
down  her  face. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  only  an  old  fool,  as  she  said 
just  now.  And,  after  all,  the  company  of  a  stupid 
old  woman  is  not  much  to  a  proud  bonny  creature 
like  that.  Sometimes  for  days  together  she  hardly 
opens  her  lips  to  me;  we  sit  together,  eat  together, 
drive  together,  and  not  a  word  for  Barby.  But 
sometimes,  poor  dear!  she  will  cling  to  me  and  cry, 
and  say  her  heart  is  breaking.  And  Solomon  was 
right;  but  it  was  not  only  a  brother  that  is  good  for 
adversity.  When  she  wants  me,  I  am  here,  and 
there  is  nothing  I  will  not  do  for  her,  and  she 
knows  it ;  and  that  is  about  the  long  and  short  of 
it,"  finished  Miss  Mewlstone9  dismissing  the  subject 
with  another  sigh.  And  then  she  bade  Phillis  finish 
her  coffee  and  put  on  her  hat.  "For  your  qaother 
will  be  expecting  you,  auci  wondering  what  has 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  303 

become  of  you ;  and  Phillips  or  Evans  must  walk 
with  you,  for  it  is  past  nine  o'clock,  and  such  a 
pretty  young  lady  must  not  go  unattended, "  con- 
cluded the  simple  woman. 

Phillis  laughed  and  kissed  her  at  this;  but, 
though  she  said  nothing  of  her  intentions,  she  deter- 
mined to  dismiss  the  servant  as  soon  as  possible, 
and  run  on  alone  to  the  Friary.  She  had  not  for- 
gotten her  encounter  with  Mr.  Drummond  on  her 
last  visit  to  the  White  House;  but  to-night  the 
storm  would  keep  him  indoors. 

Evans,  the  new  footman,  was  desired  to  escort 
her;  but  in  the  middle  of  the  avenue  Phillis  civilly 
dismissed  him. 

"There  is  no  need  for  two  of  us  to  get  wet;  and 
the  rain  is  coming  on  very  heavily/'  she  said. 

The  young  man  hesitated,  but  he  was  slow-witted 
and  new  to  his  duty,  and  the  young  lady  had  a  per- 
emptory way  with  her,  so  he  touched  his  hat  and 
went  back  to  the  house. 

"Such  nonsense,  having  a  liveried  servant  at  my 
heels,  when  I  am  only  a  dressmaker!"  thought 
Phillis,  scurrying  down  the  avenue  like  a  chased 
rabbit. 

Hitherto,  the  trees  had  sheltered  here;  but  a 
glance  at  the  open  road  and  the  driving  rain  made 
her  resolve  to  take  refuge  in  the  porch  of  the  cot- 
tage that  stood  opposite  the  gate.  It  was  the  place 
where  Nan  and  her  mother  had  once  lodged;  and, 
though  all  the  lights  were  extinguished,  and  the 
people  had  retired  to  bed,  she  felt  a  comfortable 
sense  of  safety  as  she  unlatched  the  little  gate.  Not 
even  Mr.  Drummond  would  discover  her  there. 

But  Phillis'  satisfaction  was  of  short  duration- 
the  foolish  girl  was  soon  to  repent  of  her  fool-har- 
diness in  dismissing  her  escort.  She  little  knew 
that  her  words  to  Evans  had  been  overheard,  anc 
that  behind  the  dripping  shrubbery  she  had  been 
watched  and  followed.  Scarcely  had  she  taken 
uucler  the  green  porch,  and  placed  her  wet 


304  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

umbrella  to  dry,  before  she  heard  the  latch  of  the 
little  gate  unclosed,  and  a  tall  dark  figure  came  up 
the  gravel  walk.  It  was  not  Isaac  Williams'  portly 
form — she  could  discern  that  in  the  darkness — a:.d 
for  the  momeit,  a  thrill  of  deadly  terror  came  upon 
the  incautious  girl;  but  the  next  minute  her  natur.'aJ 
courage  returned  to  her  aid.  The  porch  was  jue-u 
underneath  the  room  where  Isaac  slept;  a  call  of 
"help"  would  reach  him  at  once;  there  was  no  rea- 
son for  this  alarm  at  all.  Nevertheless,  she  shrunk 
back  a  little  as  the  stranger  came  directly  toward 
her,  then  paused  as  though  in  some  embarrass- 
ment: 

44  Pardon  me,  but  you  have  poor  shelter  here.  I 
am  Mrs.  Williams'  lodger.  I  could  easily  let  you 
into  the  cottage.  I  am  afraid  the  rain  comes 
through  the  trellis  work." 

Phillis'  heart  gave  a  great  thump  of  relief.  In 
the  first  place,  Mrs.  Williams'  lodger  must  be  a 
respectable  person,  and  no  dangerous  loafer  or 
pickpocket;  in  the  second  place,  the  refined,  cul- 
tured tones  of  the  stranger  pleased  her  ear.  Phillis 
had  a  craze  on  this  point.  4<You  may  be  deceived 
in  a  face,  but  in  a  voice,  never!"  she  would  say, 
and,  as  she  told  Nan  afterward,  the  moment  that 
voice  greeted  her  in  the  darkness  she  felt  no  further 
fear. 

44 1  have  a  dry  corner  here,"  she  returned,  quietly; 
44 it  is  only  a  thunder- shower,  and  I  am  close  to 
home — only  down  the  road,  and  just  round  the 
corner,  past  the  vicarage." 

4 'Past  the  vicarage!"  in  a  tone  of  surprise;  "why, 
there  are  no  houses  there!" 

"There  is  a  very  small  one  called  the  Friary," 
returned  Phillis,  feeling  herself  color  in  the  dark- 
ness, as  she  mentioned  their  humble  abode.  There 
was  no  answer  for  a  moment,  and  then  her  mysteri- 
ous neighbor  continued : 

"My  good  landlord  seems  to  retire  early;  the 
whole  place  looks  deserted.  They  are  very  early 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  805 

risers,  and  perhaps  that  is  the  reason.  If  you  will 
allow  me  to  pass,  I  will  open  the  door  and  light  a 
lamp  in  my  little  parlor.  Even  if  you  prefer  to 
remain  in  the  porch,  it  will  look  more  cheerful. " 
And,  without  waiting  for  her  reply,  he  took  a  key 
from  his  pocket,  and  let  himself  into  the  house. 

Their  voices  had  disturbed  the  owners  of  the  cot- 
tage, and  Phillis  overheard  the  following  colloquy: 

44 Dear  sakes  alive!  what  a  frightful  storm!  Is 
there  anything  you  want,  Mr.  Dancy?"  in  Mrs. 
Williams'  shrill  tones.  <• 

"Not  for  myself,  Mrs.  Williams:  but  there  is  a 
young  lady  sheltering  in  the  porch.  I  should  be 
glad  if  you  could  come  down  and  make  her  a  little 
comfortable.  The  flood-gates  of  heaven  seem  open 
to-night." 

4 'Dear,  dear!"  in  a  still  more  perplexed  voice; 
44a  young  lady  at  this  time  of  night — why,  it  must 
be  half  after  nine!  Very  well,  Mr.  Dancy;  beg  her 
to  come  in  and  sit  in  your  parlor  a  moment,  and  I 
will  be  down." 

But  Phillis  absolutely  refused  to  comply  with 
the  invitation. 

44 1  am  not  tired,  and  I  am  not  a  bit  wet,  and  I 
like  watching  the  rain.  This  is  a  nice  little  porch, 
and  I  have  taken  refuge  here  before.  We  all  know 
Mrs.  Wiliams  very  well." 

44  She  is  a  good  creature,  if  she  were  not  always 
in  a  bustle,"  returned  Mr.  Dancy.  "There,  the 
lamp  is  lighted;  that  looks  more  comfortable." 
And  as  he  spoke  he  came  out  into  the  little  hall  . 

Phillis  stole  a  curious  glance  at  him. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  and  was  dressed  somewhat 
strangely.  A  long  foreign-looking  cloak,  and  a 
broad-brimmed  felt  hat,  which  he  had  not  yet 
removed,  gave  him  the  look  of  an  artist;  but, 
except  that  he  had  a  beard  and  a  mustache,  and 
wore  blue  spectacles,  she  could  not  gain  the  slight- 
est clew  to  his  features.  But  his  voice— it  pleased 
Plrlllis'  sensitive  ear  more  every  moment;  it  was 


306  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

pleasant — rather  foreign,  too — and  had  a  sad  ring 
in  it. 

He  leaned  against  the  wall  opposite  to  her,  and 
looked  out  thoughtfully  at  the  driving  rain. 

'I  think  I  saw  you  coming  out  from  the  White 
House,"  he  observed,  presently.  "Are  you  a 
friend  of  Mrs.  Cheyne?  I  hope,"  hesitating  a  little, 
44 that  she  is  very  well." 

"Do  you  know  her?"  asked  Phillis,  in  surprise. 

"That  is  a  very  Irish  way  of  answering  my  ques- 
tion ;  but  you  shall  have  your  turn  first.  Yes,  I 
used  to  know  her  many  years  ago,  and  Herbert 
Cheyne,  too." 

"Her  poor  husband  I  Oh!  and  did  you  like  him?" 
rather  breathlessly. 

"Pretty  fairly,"  was  the  indifferent  reply.  "Peo- 
ple used  to  call  him  a  pleasant  fellow,  but  I  never 
thought  much  of  him  myself — not  but  what  he  was 
more  sinned  against  than  sinning,  poor  devil.  Any- 
how, he  paid  dearly  enough  for  his  faults." 

"Yes,  indeed;  and  one  must  always  speak 
leniently  of  the  dead." 

"Ah,  that  is  what  they  say — that  he  is  dead.  I 
suppose  his  widow  put  on  mourning,  and  made 
lamentation.  She  is  well,  you  say,  and  cheerful?" 

"Oh,  no!  neither  one  nor  the  other.  I  am  not  her 
friend;  I  only  know,  her  just  a  little;  but  she  strikes 
me  as  very  sad.  She  has  lost  her  children, 
and—" 

"Ah!"  Phillis  thought  she  had  heard  a  strange 
sound,  almost  like  a  groan,  but  of  course  it  was 
fancy;  and  just  then  good  Mrs.  Williams  came 
bustling  downstairs. 

"Dear  heart!  why,  if  it  is  not  Miss  Challoner! 
To  think  of  you,  my  dear  miss,  being  out  so  late, 
and  alone!  Oh,  what  ever  will  your  ma  say?" 

"My  mother  will  scold  me,  of  course,"  returned 
Phillis,  laughing;  "but  you  must  not  scold  me,  too, 
Mrs,  Williams,  though  I  deserve  all  I  get.  Miss 
Mewlstone  sent  Evans  with  noe,  but  I  m^de  him  go 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  307 

back.     Country  girls  are  fearless,  and  it  is  only  just 
a  step  to  the  Friary." 

44 The  rain  is  stopping  now,  if  you  will  permit  me 
to  escort  you.  Mrs.  Williams  will  be  the  voucher 
for  my  respectability,"  observed  Mr.  Dancy,  very 
gravely  and  without  ,a  smile;  and,  as  Phillis  seemed 
inclined  to  put  him  off  with  an  excuse,  he  contin- 
ued, more  seriously:  "Pardon  me,  but  it  is  far  too 
late  and  the  road  far  too  lonely  for  a  young  lady  to 
go  unattended.  If  you  prefer  it  I  will  go  to  the 
White  House,  and  bring  out  the  recreant  Evans  by 
force." 

"Oh,  no!  there  is  no  need  for  that,"  observed 
Phillis,  hastily;  and  Mrs.  Williams  interposed 
volubly: 

"Goodness1  sakes,  Miss  Challoner,  you  have  no 
call  to  be  afraid  of  Mr.  Dancy!  Why,  Mr.  Frank 
Blunt,  that  nice  young  gentleman  who  lodged  with 
me  ever  so  many  years,  recommended  him  to  me  as 
one  of  his  best  and  oldest  friends.  Your  ma  knew 
Mr.  Blunt,  for  he  was  here  with  her,  and  a  nicer 
spoken  young  gentleman  she  said  she  never  saw. ' 

"That  will  do,  Mrs.  Williams,"  returned  Mr, 
Dancy,  in  rather  a  peremptory  tone;  and  then, 
turning  to  Phillis,  he  said,  more  civilly,  but  still  a 
little  abruptly,  as  though  he  were  displeased: 

"Well,  Miss  Challoner,  do  you  feel  inclined  to 
trust  yourself  with  me  for  a  few  hundred  yards,  or 
shall  I  fetch  Evans?"  And  Phillis,  feeling  herself 
rebuked,  unfurled  her  umbrella  at  once,  and  bade 
Mrs.  Williams  good-night  by  way  of  answer. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 
MRS.  WILLIAMS'  LODGER. 

Phillis  felt  rather  shy  and  uncomfortable  as  she 
picked  her  way  warily  among  the  rain-pools  in  the 
semi-darkness.  Her  companion  was  inclined  to  be 
silent,  most  likely  he  considered  her  churlish  in 


308  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

repelling  his  civil  offers  of  help;  so,  io  make  amends 
and  set  herself  at  her  ease,  she  began  to  talk  to  him 
with  an  attempt  at  her  old  sprightliness. 

44 Do  you  know  this  neighborhood  well,  Mr. 
Dancy?  Have  you  been  long  at  Ivy  Cottage?" 

44 Only  a  few  days;  but  I  know  the  place  well 
enough,"  he  responded,  quietly.  44It  depends  upon 
circumstances  how  long  I  remain  here." 

"Hadleigh  is  very  quiet,"  returned  Phillis, 
quickly.  "It  does  not  offer  many  attractions  to 
strangers  unless  they  have  very  moderate  views  of 
enjoyment.  It  is  select,  and  bathing  is  good,  and 
the  country  tolerable ;  but  when  you  have  said  that 
you  have  said  all  in  its  favor." 

44 1  have  always  liked  the  place,"  with  a -checked 
sigh.  "Quiet — that  is  what  I  want,  and  rest  also. 
I  have  been  rather  a  wanderer  over  the  face  of  the 
earth,  and  one  wants  a  little  breathing- time  occa- 
sionally to  recruit  one's  exhausted  energies.  I  like 
Ivy  Cottage,  and  I  like  Mrs.  Williams;  both  suit 
me  for  the  present.  Are  you  a  visitor  to  Hadleigh 
— a  mere  bird  of  passage  like  myself,  Miss  Chal- 
loner?" 

4 'Oh,  dear,  no!  we  have  come  here  to  live!" 

"And — and  you  are  intimate  with  Mrs.  Cheyne?" 
coming  a  little  closer  to  her  side  in  ihe  darkness. 

"Nothing  of  the  kind/*  retorted  Phillis;  "we  are 
mere  acquaintances.  I  do  not  feel  *o  know  her  at 
all ;  she  is  not  a  person  with  whom  :>ne  could  get 
intimate  all  at  once;  she  is  a  !ittle  difficult.  Be- 
sides, in  our  position — "  And  here  she  pulled  her- 
self up  suddenly. 

''Pardon  me,"  returned  Mr.  Dancy,  in  an  inter- 
ested voice,  "  perhaps  I'have  no  right  to  inquire,  but 
your  words  are  a  little  mysterious.  Why  should 
you  not  be  intimate  with  Mrs.  Cheyne?" 

Phillis  grew  hot  in  the  darkness.  What  right  had 
he,  a  perfect  stranger,  to  question  her  so  closely? 
And  yet,  if  hs  were  interested  in  his  old  friends, 
perhaps  b^  meant  to  call  at  the  White  House>  and 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  309 

then  be  would  hear  all  about  them;  and,  after  all, 
perfect  frankness  always  answered  best  in  the 
long  run.  Phillis  hesitated  so  long  over  her  re- 
joinder that  Mr.  Dancy  said,  rather  apologetically: 

"I  see  I  have  been  incautious,  but  you  must  not 
attribute  my  question  to  impertinent  curiosity.  I 
am  anxious  to  learn  all  I  can  about  a  very  old 
friend,  of  whom  I  have  long  lost  sight,  and  I  hoped 
that  you  might  have  been  able  to  satisfy  me." 

"Miss  Middleton  would  tell  you  far  more  than  I." 

44 What!  Elizabeth  Middleton?  Oh,  no;  she  is  far 
too  much  of  a  saint  for  me." 

44 You  know  her,  too!"  exclaimed  Phillis,  in  sur- 
prise. 44No,  I  do  not  think  you  are  curious,  Mr. 
Dancy;  it  was  only  a  little  awkward  for  me  to  tell 
you  about  our  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Cheyne.  My 
sister  and  I  rendered  her  a  trifling  service,  and  she 
took  a  fancy  to  us,  and  wished  to  be  friends;  but  in 
our  present  position  any  close  intimacy  would  be 
impossible,  as  we  are  only  dressmakers." 

4 "Dressmakers!"  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the 
genuine  astonishment,  almost  dismay,  in  Mr. 
Dancy's  voice.  44 Dressmakers!  Pardon  me,  Miss 
Challoner,  but  when  one  has  seen  and  spoken  to  a 
lady  like  yourself,  it  is  almost  incredible." 

This  put  Phillis  on  her  mettle  at  once,  and  in  a 
moment  she  laid  by  all  her  reserve. 

44 You  have  been  a  traveler,  Mr.  Dancy,  and  must 
have  seen  strange  things  by  this  time.  It  surely 
cannot  be  such  a  matter  of  surprise  that  when  gen- 
tlepeople  are  poor  they  must  work  for  their  bread. 
When  one  has  ten  clever  fingers,  it  is  better  to  use 
them  than  to  starve.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my 
position;  my  sisters  and  I  are  very  independent; 
but,  as  we  do  not  like  to  cause  other  people  embar- 
rassment, we  prefer  to  lead  hermit  lives." 

Phillis'  silvery  tones  were  rather  fierce,  but  it  was 
well  that  she  did  not  see  her  companion's  expression 
of  suppressed  amusement;  there  was  a  little  smoth- 
ered laugh,  too,  that  was  turned  into  a  cough. 


310  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"Are  your  sisters  young  like  yourself?"  he  asked, 
rather  abruptly. 

"Oh,  yes,  we  are  all  much  of  an  age/* 

*4And  you  have  parents?" 

"Only  one  parent,  "she  corrected — "a  mother. 
Ah,  here  we  are  at  the  Friary!  Many  thanks  for 
your  escort,  Mr.  Dancy. " 

"Many  thanks  for  allowing  me  to  escort  you,"  he 
returned,  pointedly;  "after  what  you  have  told  me, 
I  esteem  it  an  honor,  Miss  Challoner.  No,  you 
have  no  need  to  be  ashamed  of  your  position ;  I 
wish  more  English  ladies  would  follow  such  a  noble 
example.  Good-night.  I  trust  we  shall  meet 
again."  And,  lifting  his  felt  hat,  he  withdrew, 
just  as  Nan  appeared  on  the  threshold,  holding  a 
lamp  in  her  hand. 

"You  naughty  girl,  what  has  kept  you  so  late?" 
she  asked,  as  Phillis  came  slowly  and  meditatively 
up  the  flagged  path. 

"Hush,  Nannie!  Have  they  all  gone  to  bed?  Let 
me  come  into  your  room  and  talk  to  you.  Oh,  I 
have  had  such  an  evening!"  And  thereupon  she 
poured  into  her  sister's  astonished  ears  the  recital 
of  her  adventure — the  storm,  the  figure  in  the 
shrubbery,  the  scene  in  the  west  corridor,  the  porch 
at  Ivy  Cottage,  and  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Williams' 
mysterious  lodger. 

"Oh,  Phillis,  I  shall  never  trust  you  out  of  my 
sight  again!  How  can  you  be  so  reckless — so  in- 
cautious? Mother  would  be  dreadfully  shocked  if 
she  knew  it." 

"Mother  must  not  know  a  single  word;  promise, 
Nan.  You  know  how  nervous  she  is.  I  will  tell 
her,  if  you  like,  that  1  took  refuge  from  the  rain  in 
Mrs.  Williams'  porch,  and  that  her  lodger  walked 
home  with  me;  but  I  think  it  would  be  better  to 
suopress  the  scene  at  the  White  House." 

Nan  thought  over  this  a  moment,  and  then  she 
agreed 

"It  would  make  mother  feel  uneasy  and  timid  in 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  311 

Mrs.  Cheyne's  presence,19  she  observed  "She 
never  likes  that  sort  of  hysterical  attacks.  We  could 
not  make  her  understand.  Poor  thing!  I  hope  she 
is  asleep  by  this  time.  Shall  you  go  to-morrow, 
Phil,  and  ask  after  her?" 

Phillis  made  a  wry  face  at  this,  and  owned  she 
had  had  enough  adventures  to  last  her  for  a  long 
time.  But  she  admitted,  too,  that  she  would  be 
anxious  to  know  how  Mrs.  Cheyne  would  be, 

44 Yes,  I  suppose  I  must  go  and  just  ask  after 
her,  "she  said,  as  she  rose  rather  wearily  and  lighted 
her  candle.  4t  There  is  not  the  least  chance  of  my 
seeing  her.  Good-night,  Nannie!  Don't  let  all  this 
keep  you  awake ;  but  I  do  not  expect  to  sleep  a 
wink  myself. " 

Which  dismal  prophecy  was  not  fulfilled,  as 
Phillis  dropped  into  a  heavy  slumber  the  moment 
her  head  touched  the  pillowe 

But  her  dreams  were  hardly  pleasant.  She 
thought  she  was  walking  down  the  "Ghost's 
Walk,"  between  the  yews  and  cypresses,  with  Mr. 
Dancy,  and  that  in  the  darkest  part  he  threw  off 
his  cloak  and  felt  hat,  and  showed  the  grinning 
skull  of  a  skeleton,  while  a  bony  arm  tried  to  seize 
her.  She  woke  moaning  with  fright,  to  find 
Dulce's  long  hair  streaming  over  her  face,  and  the 
birds  singing  in  the  sweet  breeze  dawn;  after  which 
she  fell  into  a  dreamless,  refreshing  sleep. 

Phillis  had  to  submit  to  rather  a  severe  reproof 
from  her  mother  in  return  for  her  frankness.  Mrs. 
Challoner's  prudery  was  up  in  arms  the  moment  she 
heard  of  Mrs.  Williams'  lodger. 

"Mrs.  Williams  ought  to  have  come  with  you  her- 
self; but  a  strange  man  at  that  time  of  night — what 
would  Mr.  Drummond  have  said  to  you?" 

44 Whatever  Mr.  Drummond  liked  to  say!"  re- 
turned Phillis,  pettishly,  for  this  was  stroking  her 
already  ruffled  feelings  decidedly  the  wrong  way. 

Phillis  always  turned  captious  whenever  Mr. 
Drummond  was  mentioned;  but  she  subsided  into 


Stt2  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

meekness  again  when  her  mother  fell  to  crying 
and  bemoaning  her  hard  fate  and  her  darlings'  un- 
protected position. 

"Oh,  what  would  your  dear  father  have  said?" 
she  cried,  in  such  utter  misery  of  tone,  that  Phillis 
began  kissing  her,  and  promising  that  she  would 
never,  never  be  out  so  late  again,  and  that  on  no 
account  would  she  walk  up  the  Braidwood  Road  in 
the  evening  with  a  strange  man  who  wore  an  out- 
landish cloak  and  a  felt  hat  that  only  wanted  a 
feather  to  remind  her  of  Guy  Fawkes,  only  Guy 
Fawkes  did  not  wear  blue  spectacles. 

When  Phillis  had  at  last  soothed  her  mother — 
always  a  lengthy  process,  for  Mrs.  Challoner,  like 
other  sensitive  and  feeble  natures,  could  only  be 
quieted  by  much  talk — she  fell  to  her  work  in  vigor- 
ous silence;  but  by  a  stroke  of  ill  luck,  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  chose  to  made  another  pastoral  visitation; 
and,  to  her  secret  chagrin,  her  mother  at  once  re- 
peated the  whole  story. 

"Mrs.  Williams'  lodger  saw  Miss  Phillis  home! 
Why,  I  did  not  know  Mrs.  Williams  had  a  lodger," 
returned  Mr.  Drummond,  in  a  perplexed  voice. 

This  made  matters  worse. 

"I  suppose  Mrs.  Williams  is  not  bound  to  let  the 
vicarage  know  directly  she  lets  her  rooms?"  ob- 
served Phillis,  rather  impatiently;  for  she  was 
vexed  with  her  mother  for  repeating  all  this. 

44 No,  of  course  not;  but  I  was  at  Ivy  Cottage  my- 
self yesterday,  and  Mrs.  Williams  knows  1  always 
call  on  her  lodgers,  and  she  never  mentioned  the 
fellow's  existence  to  me." 

"Fellow,  indeed!"  observed  Phillis,  sotto  voce; 
for  she  had  a  vivid  remembrance  of  the  stranger's 
commanding  presence  and  pleasant  voice. 

"When  did  he  come?"  inquired  the  young  vicar, 
curiously.  "He  must  keep  himself  pretty  close  by 
daylight;  for  I  have  passed  and  repassed  Ivy  Cot- 
tage at  least  half  a  dozen  times  a  day,  and  have 
never  caught  a  glimpse  of  any  one;"  to  which 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  813 

Phillis  replied,  reluctantly,  that  he  had  not  been 
there  long — that  he  wanted  rest  and  quiet,  and  was 
most  likely  an  invalid. 

"And  his  name  is  Dancy,  you  say?" 

Phillis  bowed.  She  was  far  too  much  taken  up 
in  her  work  to  volunteer  unnecessary  words;  and 
all  this  maternal  fuss  and  fidget  was  odious  to  her. 

44 Then  I  will  go  and  call  upon  him  this  very  after- 
noon,"  returned  Archie,  with  cheerful  alacrity.  He 
had  no  idea  that  his  curiosity  on  the  subject  was 
disagreeable  to  the  girl,  so  he  and  Mrs  Challoner 
discussed  the  matter  fully,  and  at  some  length.  "1 
don't  like  the  description  of  your  mysterious 
stranger,  Miss  Challoner,"  he  said,  laughing,  as  he 
stood  up  to  take  his  leave.  "When  novelists  want 
to  paint  a  villain,  they  generally  bring  in  a  long 
cloak  and  beard,  and  sometimes  a  disguising  pair 
of  blue  spectacles.  Well,  I  will  catch  him  by  day- 
light, and  see  what  I  can  make  of  him.*' 

44 You  may  disguise  a  face,  but  you  can  not  dis- 
guise a  voice, "  returned  Phillis,  bluntly.  "I  do 
not  want  to  see  Mr.  Dancy  to  know  he  is  a  gen- 
tleman and  a  true  man/'  And  tnis  speech,  that 
piqued  Archie,  though  he  did  not  know  why,  made 
him  all  the  more  bent  on  calling  on  Mrs.  Wil« 
liams's  lodger. 

But  Mr.  Drummond's  curiosity  was  destined  to 
be  baffled.  Mrs.  Williams  turned  very  red  when 
she  heard  the  vicar's  inquiries. 

"You  never  told  me  you  had  let  your  rooms,"  he 
said,  reproachfully;  "and  yet  you  know  I  always 
make  a  practice  of  calling  on  your  lodgers." 

"'Deed,  and  it  is  very  kind  and  thoughtful  of  you, 
too, "  returned  the  good  woman,  dropping  an  old- 
fashioned  courtesy;  "and  me  tnat  prizes  my  clergy- 
man's visits  and  thinks  no  end  of  them!  But  Mr. 
Dancy  he  says  to  me,  4Now,  my  good  Mrs.  Williams, 
I  have  come  here  for  quiet — for  absolute  quiet;  and 
I  do  not  want  to  see  or  hear  of  any  one.  Tell  no 
tales  about  me,  and  leave  me  in  peace;  and  then  we 


3U  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

shall  get  on  together.'  And  it  was  more  than  I 
ventured  to  give  you  the  hint,  hearing  him  speak  so 
positive;  for  he  is  a  bit  masterful,  and  no  mistake." 

44 Well,  never  mind;  a  clergyman  never  intrudes, 
and  I  will  thank  you  to  take  Mr.  Dancy  my  card," 
returned  Archie,  impatiently;  but  his  look  of  assur- 
ance soon  faded  when  Mrs.  Williams  returned  with 
her  lodger's  compliments,  and  he  was  very  much 
obliged  to  Mr.  Drummond  for  his  civility,  but  he 
did  not  wish  to  receive  visitors. 

Phillis  was  a  little  contrary  all  the  remainder  of 
the  day;  she  was  not  exactly  cross — all  the  Challo- 
ners  were  sweet-tempered  —  but  nothing  quite 
suited  her.  Mrs.  Challoner  had  proposed  going 
that  evening  into  the  town  with  her  youngest 
daughter  to  execute  some  commissions. 

Just  before  they  started,  Phillis  observed  rather 
shortly  that  she  should  call  at  the  White  House  to 
make  inquiries  after  Mrs  Cheyne,  and  that  she 
would  come  back  to  the  Friary  to  fetch  Nan  for  a 
country  walk.  "If  I  do  not  appear  in  half  an  hour, 
you  must  come  in  search  of  me,"  finished  Phillis, 
with  a  naughty  cun  of  her  lip,  to  which  Nan  with 
admirable  tact  returned  no  answer,  but  all  the  same 
she  fully  intended  to  carry  out  the  injunction ;  for 
Nan  had  imbibed  her  mother's  simple  old-fashioned 
notions,  and  a  lurking  dislike  of  Mrs.  Williams's 
lodger  had  already  entered  her  mind. 

As  Phillis  did  not  enjoy  her  errand,  she  put  on 
the  best  face  she  could,  and  hurried  down  the  Braid- 
wood  Road  as  though  her  feet  were  winged  like  a 
female  Mercury;  and  Mr.  Dancy,  who  happened  to 
be  looking  over  the  wire  blind  in  the  little  parlor, 
much  admired  the  girl's  free  swift  gait  as  she  sped 
down  the  avenuo.  Evans,  the  young  footman, 
admitted  her,  and  conducted  her  at  once  to  tne 
drawing-room;  and  great  was  Phillis's  surprise  and 
discomposure  when  she  saw  Mrs.  Cheyne  sitting 
alone  reading  by  one  of  the  windows,  with  her  grey- 
hounds grouped  around  her. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  315 

She  started  slightly  at  the  announcement  of  Phil- 
lis's  name,  and,  as  she  came  forward  to  greet  her, 
a  dark  flush  crossed  her  face  for  a  moment;  then 
her  features  settled  into  their  usual  impassive  calm, 
only  there  was  marked  coldness  in  her  voice. 

44  Good- even  ing-,  Miss  Challoner;  you  have  chosen 
a  fine  evening  for  your  visit.  Let  me  beg  of  you 
never  again  to  venture  to  the  White  House  in  such 
a  storm. ' ' 

Phillis  stammered  out  something  about  hoping 
that  she  was  better,  but  she  interrupted  her  almost 
abruptly : 

4 'Much  better,  thank  you.  I  am  afraid  you  found 
me  decidedly  strange  yesterday.  I  had  what  peo- 
ple call  a  nervous  attack:  electricity  in  the  air,  a 
brooding  storm,  brings  it  on.  It  is  a  pity  one 
should  be  so  childish  as  to  dread  thunder;  but  W6 
are  oddly  constituted,  some  of  us.**  She  shrugged 
her  shoulders,  as  though  to  dismiss  the  subject, 
and  stroked  the  head  of  the  greyhound  that  lay  at 
her  feet. 

Poor  Phillis  found  her  position  decidedly  embar- 
rassing. To  be  sure,  Miss  Mewlstone  had  warned 
her  of  the  reception  that  she  might  expect;  but  all 
the  same  she  found  it  very  unpleasant.  She  must 
not  abridge  her  visit  so  much  as  to  excite  suspicion; 
and  yet  it  seemed  impossible  to  carry  on  a  com- 
fortable conversation  with  Mrs.  Cheyne  in  this 
freezing  mood,  and,  as  Phillis  could  think  of  noth- 
ing to  say,  she  asked  after  Miss  Mewlstone. 

*4Oh,  she  is  very  well,"  Mrs.  Cheyne  answered, 
indifferently.  *' Nothing  ever  ails  Barby:  she  is  one 
of  those  easy-going  people  who  take  life  as  they 
find  it,  without  fuss  and  grumbling." 

44 1  think  she  is  very  nice  and  sympathetic,"  haz- 
arded Phillis.  • 

44Oh,  yes,  Miss  Mewlstone  has  a  feeling  heart," 
returned  Mrs.  Cheyne ;  but  she  said  it  in  a  sarcastic 
voice.  44We  have  all  our  special  denowments.  Miss 
Mewlstone  is  made  by  nature  to  be  a  moral  feather- 


316  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

bed  to  break  other  people's  awkward  tumbles.  She 
hinders  broken  bones,  and  interposes  a  soft  surface 
of  sympathy  between  unlucky  folks.  There  is  not 
much  in  common  between  us,  but  all  the  same  old 
Barby  is  a  sort  of  necessity  to  me.  We  are  a  droll 
household  at  the  White  House,  Miss  Challoner,  are 
we  not — Barby  and  the  greyhounds  and  I? — oh, 
quite  a  happy  family!"  And  she  gave  a  short 
laugh,  very  much  the  reverse  of  merriment. 

Phillis  began  to  feel  that  it  was  time  to  go. 

"Well,  how  does  the  dressmaking  progress?" 
asked  her  hostess,  suddenly.  "Miss  Middleton  tells 
me  the  Challoner  fit  is  quite  the  rage  in  Hadleigh. " 

"We  have  more  orders  than  we  can  execute,'1  re- 
turned Phillis,  curtly. 

"Humph!  that  sounds  promising.  I  hope  your 
mother  is  careful  of  you,  and  forbids  any  expendi- 
ture of  midnight  oil,  or  you  will  be  reduced  to  a 
thread- paper.  As  I  have  told  you,  you  are  not  the 
same  girl  that  you  were  when  you  came  to  the 
relief  of  my  injured  ankle." 

"I  feel  tolerably  substantial,  thank  you,"  re- 
turned Phillis,  ungraciously,  for,  in  common  with 
other  girls,  she  hated  to  be  pitied  for  her  looks,  and 
she  had  a  notion  that  Mrs.  Cheyne  only  said  this  to 
plague  her.  "Nan  is  our  head  and  task-mistress. 
We  lead  regular  lives,  have  stated  hours  for  work, 
take  plenty  of  exercise,  and,  on  the  whole,  are 
doing  as  well  as  possible." 

"There  speaks  the  Challoner  spirit." 

"Oh,  yes;  that  never  fails  us.  But  now  Nan  will 
be  waiting  for  me,  and  I  only  just  called  to  inquire 
after  you." 

"And  you  did  not  expect  to  see  me.  Well,  come 
again  when  I  am  in  a  better  humor  for  conversa- 
tion. If  you  stay  longer  now  I  might  not  be  spar- 
ing of  my  sarcasms.  By  the  bye,  what  has  become 
of  our  young  vicar?  Tell  him  he  has  not  converted 
me  yet,  and  1  quite  miss  his  pastoral  visits.  Do 
you  know, "  looking  so  keenly  at  Phillis  that  she 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  317 

blushed  with  annoyance,  "a  little  bird  tells  me  that 
our  pastor  has  undertaken  the  supervision  of  the 
Friary.  Which  is  it,  my  dear,  that  he  is  trying  to 
convert?" 

The  tone  and  manner  were  intolerable  to  Phillis. 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Mrs.  Cheyne,"  she  re- 
turned, with  superb  youthful  haughtiness.  "Mr. 
Drummond  is  a  kind  neighbor,  and  so  is  Miss 
Mattie.  You  may  keep  these  insinuations  for  him, 
if  you  will."  Then  she  would  have  escaped  with- 
out another  glance  at  her  tormenter,  but  Mrs. 
Cheyne  detained  her. 

4  *  There,  never  mind.  I  will  take  back  my  naughty 
speech.  It  was  rude  and  impertinent  of  me,  I  know 
that.  But  I  like  you  all  the  better  for  your  spirit; 
and,  my  dear,  take  care  of  yourself  and  your  pretty 
sisters,  for  he  is  not  worthy  of  one  of  you." 

44 Oh,  Mrs.  Cheyne!  for  shame!"  And  Phillis's 
gray  eyes  sparkled  with  lively  indignation. 

44 He  is  a  very  ordinary  good  man;  and  you  and 
your  sisters  are  real  metal,  and  worth  your  weight 
in  gold.  There!  go  away,  child;  and  come  and  see 
me  again,  for  it  does  me  good  to  torment  you!" 
And  the  singular  woman  drew  the  girl  into  her 
arms  suddenly  and  kissed  her  forehead,  and  then 
pushed  her  away.  44  To-morrow,  or  the  next  day, 
but  not  to-night,"  she  said,  hurriedly.  44I  should 
make  you  cross  fifty  times  if  you  stay  longer  to- 
night." And  Phillis  was  too  thankful  to  be  released 
to  linger  any  longer;  but  her  cheeks  were  burning 
as  she  walked  down  the  avenue. 

"Why  do  people  always  put  these  things  into 
girls'  heads?"  she  said  to  herself.  44A  young  man 
can  not  come  into  the  house,  can  not  say  pleasant 
words,  or  do  kind,  neighborly  actions,  but  one  must 
at  once  attribute  motives  of  this  kind.  I  have  not 
been  free  from  blame  myself  in  this  matter,  for  I 
have  feared  more  than  once  that  Nan's  sweet  face 
attracted  him — poor  Mr.  Drummond!  I  hope  not, 
for  he  would  not  have  a  chance  against  Dick.  I 


318  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

wonder  if  I  ought  to  say  a  word?  if  it  would  be 
premature  or  unnecessary?  But  I  should  hate  him 
to  be  unhappy" — here  Phillis  sighed,  and  then 
threw  up  her  head  proudly:  "I  might  say  just  a 
word,  mentioning  Dick — for  he  does  not  know  of 
his  existence.  I  wonder  if  he  would  take  the  hint. 
I  could  do  it  very  cleverly,  I  know.  1  hate  to  see 
people  burning  their  fingers  for  nothing:  I  always 
want  to  go  to  their  rescue.  He  is  tiresome,  but  he 
is  very  nice.  And,  heigh-ho!  what  a  crooked  world 
we  live  in — nothing  goes  quite  straight  in  it."  And 
Phillis  sighed  again. 

"Miss  Challoner!"  The  voice  sounded  so  near 
her  that  Phillis  gave  a  great  start.  She  had  nearly 
reached  the  gate,  and  there  was  Mr.  Dancy  walk- 
ing beside  her,  just  as  though  he  had  emerged  from 
the  ground;  and  yet  Phillis  had  not  heard  a  sound. 
"Have  1  startled  you?"  he  continued,  gravely. 
"You  were  in  such  a  brown  study  that  I  had  to  call 
you  by  your  name  to  rouse  you.  There  is  nothing 
wrong  at  the  White  House,  I  hope?" 

"Oh,  no!  Mrs.  Cheyne  is  better;  her  nervous 
attack  has  quite  passed  off." 

"Magdalene  is  suffering  from  a  nervous  attack?" 
and  then  Mr.  Dancy  stopped,  and  bit  his  lip.  "Ex- 
cuse me,  I  knew  her  before  she  was  married,  when 
she  was  Magdalene  Davenport — before  she  and 
poor  Herbert  Cheyne  unfortunately  came  together. 
I  doubt  whether  things  have  happened  for  the  best; 
there — I  mean,"  as  Phillis  looked  at  him  in  some 
perplexity,  "that  there  is  little  fear  of  her  being 
an  inconsolable  widow." 

"How  can  you  say  such  a  thing!"  returned  Phil- 
lis, indignantly.  "That  is  the  way  with  you  men, 
you  judge  so  harshly  of  women.  Mrs.  Cheyne  is 
singular  in  her  ways.  She  wears  no  mourning,  and 
yet  a  more  unhappy  creature  never  existed  on  this 
earth.  Not  inconsolable  —  and  yet  no  one  dares 
speak  a  word  of  comfort  to  her,  so  great  is  her 
misery." 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  319 

" Excuse  me  one  moment;  I  have  been  ill,  and 
am  still  subject  to  fits  of  giddiness.  A  mere  ver- 
tigo; nothing  more."  But  he  said  the  word  gasp- 
ing for  breath,  and  looked  so  deathly  pale  that 
Phillis  felt  quite  frightened  as  she  stood  beside  him. 

They  had  been  walking  a  few  steps  down  the 
Braidwood  Road,  and  Phillis  had  looked  out  anx- 
iously for  Nan  who  had  not  yet  appeared  in  sight. 
But  now  Mr.  Dancy  had  come  to  an  abrupt  pause, 
and  was  leaning  for  support  against  the  low  wall 
that  shut  in  the  grounds  of  the  White  House.  Phil- 
lis looked  at  him  a  little  curiously,  in  spite  of  her 
sympathy.  He  still  wore  his  loose  cloak,  though 
the  evening  was  warm;  but  he  had  loosened  it,  and 
taken  off  his  felt  hat  for  air. 

In  figure,  he  was  a  tall,  powerful-looking  man, 
only  thin  and  almost  emaciated,  as  though  from 
recent  illness.  His  features  were  handsome,  but 
singularly  bronzed  and  weather  beaten,  as  though 
from  constant  expostire  to  sun  and  wind ;  and  even 
the  blue  spectacles  could  not  hide  a  pair  of  keen 
blue  eyes.  By  daylight  Phillis  could  see  that  his 
brown  beard  and  mustache  were  tinged  with  grey, 
and  the  hair  on  the  temples  was  almost  white;  and 
yet  he  seemed  still  in  the  prime  of  life.  It  was  a 
far  handsomer  face  than  Archie  Drummond's;  but 
the  deep  lines  and  gray  hair  spoke  of  trouble  more 
than  age,  and  one  thing  especially  impressed  Phillis 
— the  face  was  as  refined  as  the  voice. 

If  Mr.  Dancy  were  aware  of  her  close  scrutiny, 
he  took  no  notice  of  it.  He  leaned  his  arm  against 
the  wall  and  rested  his  head  against  it;  and  the  thin 
brown  hand  was  plainly  visible,  with  a  deep  red  scar 
just  above  the  wrist. 

And  Phillis  regarded  it  with  sudden  horror,  won- 
dering what  had  inflicted  it;  he  suddenly  aroused 
himself  with  an  apology: 

4  *  There!  it  has  passed:  it  never  lasts  long.  Shall 
we  walk  on?  I  am  so  ashamed  of  detaining  you  in 
this  way;  but  when  a  man  has  had  a  sunstroke—" 


320  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

44 Oh,  that  is  sad!"  returned  Phillis,  in  a  sympa- 
thizing voice.  "Is  that  why  you  keep  in-doors  so 
much  in  the  daylight?  at  least" — correcting  herself 
in  haste,  for  she  had  spoken  without  thought — 
4 'one  never  sees  you  about/'  which  was  a  foolish 
speech,  and  showed  she  took  notice  of  his  move- 
ments; but  she  could  not  betray  Mr.  Drummond. 

44  Some  one  else  only  comes  out  in  the  evening,  "he 
rejoined,  rather  pointedly.  "Who  told  you  I  kept 
in-doors  in  the  daylight?  Oh,  I  know!"  the  frown 
passing  from  his  face,  for  he  had  spoken  quickly 
and  in  an  annoyed  fashion.  "This  sounds  like  a 
parson's  prating;  I  know  the  language  of  old.  By 
the  bye,  did  you  set  the  clergy  on  my  track?" 
turning  the  blue  spectacles  full  on  the  embarrassed 
Phillis. 

"I?  no  indeed!"  and  then  she  went  on  frankly: 
"Mr.  Drummond  was  at  our  house,  and  he  told  us 
that  he  always  called  on  Mrs.  Williams's  lodgers." 

"True,  Miss  Challoner;  but  how  did  his  rever- 
ence know  Mrs.  Williams  had  a  lodger?" 

This  was  awkward,  but  Phillis  steered  her  way 
through  the  difficulty  with  her  usual  dexterity. 

"I  mentioned  to  my  mother  that  you  were  kind 
enough  to  see  me  home,  and  she  repeated  the  fact 
to  Mr.  Drummond." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Challoner;  now  I  understand. 
I  wonder  if  your  mother  would  be  very  shocked  if 
a  stranger  intruded  upon  her?  but  you  and  I  must 
have  some  more  conversation  together,  and  I  do 
not  see  how  it  is  to  be  managed  in  accordance  with 
what  you  ladies  call  les  convenances" 

"My  mother — "  began  Phillis,  demurely;  and 
then  she  paused,  and  looked  up  at  him  in  astonish- 
ment. "What,  Mr.  Dancy!  you  purpose  to  call  on 
my  mother,  and  yet  you  refused  Mr.  Drummond 's 
visit?"  for  the  news  of  Archie's  defeat  had  already 
reached  the  Friary  through  Miss  Mattie. 

Mr.  Dancy  seemed  rather  nonplused  at  this,  and 
,then  he  laughed : 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  321 

"Ah,  you  are  shrewd,  Miss  Challoner;  there  is  no 
deceiving  you!  I  have  seen  Mr.  Drummond  pass 
and  repass  often  enough;  and — pardon  me,  if  he 
be  a  friend — I  thought  from  the  cut  of  his  coat  that 
he  was  a  prig,  and  I  have  a  horror  of  clerical  prigs." 

*4He  is  not  priggish  in  the  least,"  was  Phillis'b 
annoyed  rejoinder, 

"No?  Well,  appearances  are  sometimes  decep- 
tive; perhaps  I  was  too  hasty  in  my  dread  of  being 
bored.  But  here  comes  your  sister,  I  think — at 
least,  I  have  seen  you  together:  so  I  am  leaving 
you  hi  good  hands."  And,  before  Phillis  could 
reply,  he  had  lifted  his  hat  and  turned  away,  just  as 
Nan,  whose  vigilant  eyes  were  upon  him,  was 
hurrying  to  join  her  sister. 

"Oh,  Phillis,  was  that  Mr.  Dancy?"  she  asked,  in 
a  reproachful  voice,  as  she  hurried  up  to  her. 

44 Yes,  Nannie,  it  was  Mr.  Dancy,"  returned 
Phillis,  composedly;  "and  I  wish  I  could  have  in- 
troduced him  to  you,  for  1  believe  he  is  coming  to 
call  on  mother. "  And,  when  she  had  related  this 
astounding  piece  of  intelligence,  she  looked  in 
Nan's  face  and  laughed,  and,  in  high  good  humor, 
proceeded  to  relate  their  conversation. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

"NOW    WE     UNDERSTAND    EACH    OTHER." 

One  fine  morning  in  September,  Mr.  Drummond 
was  standing  at  the  back  of  Milner's  Library,  turn- 
ing over  the  last  new  assortment  of  books  from 
Mudie,  when  two  gentlemen  entered  the  shop. 

Strangers  were  always  interesting  to  Archie,  and 
he  criticised  them  under  a  twofold  aspect — pastoral 
and  social.  In  this  way  curiosity  becomes  a  virtue, 
and  a  man  with  a  mission  is  not  without  his  inter- 
ests in  life.  Hadleigh  was  Mr.  Drummond's  sheep- 
walk,  where  he  shepherded  his  lambs,  and  looked 
after  his  black  sheep  and  tried  to  wash  them  white, 

JSL  Girls. 


S22  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

or,  in  default  of  that,  at  least  to  make  out  that 
their  fleece  was  not  so  sable  after  all :  so  he  now 
considered  it  his  duty  to  leave  off  turning  over  the 
pages  of  a  seductive-looking  novel,  and  to  inspect 
the  strangers. 

They  were  both  dressed  in  tweed  traveling  cos- 
tumes, and  looked  sunburned,  as  though  they  had 
just  returned  from  a  walking-tour.  The  elder  was 
a  short,  wiry  man,  with  a  shrewd  face  and  quizzical 
eyes;  and  he  asked  in  a  sharp,  clipping  voice,  that 
was  not  free  from  accent,  for  the  last  number  of  the 
local  paper,  containing  lists  of  inhabitants,  visitors, 
etc. 

Meanwhile,  the  younger  man  walked  about  the 
shop,  whistling  softly  to  himself,  as  though  he  had 
a  tund  of  cheerfulness  on  hand  which  must  find 
vent  somewhere.  When  he  came  opposite  Archie, 
he  took  a  brief  survey  of  him  in  a  careless,  good- 
humored  fashion,  and  then  turned  on  his  heel,  be- 
stowing a  very  cursory  glance  on  Miss  Masham, 
who  stood  shaking  her  black  ringlets  after  the 
fashion  of  shop-women,  and  waiting  to  know  the 
gentleman's  pleasure. 

No  one  would  have  called  this  young  man  very 
good  looking,  unless  such  a  one  had  a  secret  pre- 
dilection for  decidedly  reddish  hair  and  a  sandy  mus- 
tache; but  there  was  an  air  of  bonhommie,  of  frank 
kindness,  of  boyish  fun  and  pleasantry,  that 
attracted  even  strangers,  and  Archie  looked  after 
him  with  considerable  interest. 

"Oxford  cut,  father  and  son:  father  looks  rather 
a  queer  customer,"  thought  Archie  to  himself. 

"Dick,  come  here!  why,  where  is  that  fellow?" 
suddenly  exclaimed  the  elder  man,  beginning  to 
put  on  his  eyeglasses  very  nervously. 

4 'Coming,  father.  All  right:  what  is  it!"  re- 
turned the  imperturbable  Dick.  He  was  still  whist- 
ling "Twickenham  Ferry,"  under  his  breath,  as  he 
came  to  the  counter  and  leaned  with  both  elbows 
upon  it. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  823 

"Good  gracious,  boy,  what  does  this  mean?" 
went  on  the  other,  in  an  irritable,  perturbed  voice; 
and  he  read  a  short  advertisement,  written  in  a 
neat,  lady-like  hand:  "  'Dressmaking  undertaken. 
Terms  moderate,  and  all  orders  promptly  executed. 
Apply  to  the  Misses  Challoner,  the  Friary,  Braid- 
wood  Road.  Ladies  waited  upon  at  their  own  resi- 
dences. *  What  the — "  he  was  about  to  add  a 
stronger  term,  but  in  deference  to  Miss  Milner,  sub- 
stituted— "dickens  does  this  mean,  Dick?" 

The  young  man's  reply  was  to  snatch  the  paper 
out  of  his  father's  hand  and  study  it  intently,  with 
his  elbows  still  on  the  counter,  and  the  last  bar  of 
"Twickenham  Ferry"  died  away  uncompleted  on 
his  lips ;  and  if  any  one  could  have  seen  his  face  they 
would  have  remarked  a  curious  redness  spreading  to 
his  forehead. 

"Nan's  handwriting,  by  Jove, "  he  muttered,  but 
still  inaudibly;  and  then  he  stared  at  the  paper, 
and  his  face  grew  redder. 

"Well,  Dick,  can't  you  answer?  What  does  this 
piece  of  tomfoolery  mean — 'dressmaking  under- 
taken— ladies  waited  upon  at  their  own  residences'? 
Can  there  be  two  families  of  Challoner,  and  two 
Friaries?  and  why  don't  you  speak  and  say  some- 
thing?" 

"Because  I  know  as  little  as  yourself,  father,"  re- 
turned the  young  man,  without  lifting  his  head;  and 
he  surreptitiously  conveyed  the  paper  to  his  pocket. 
"Perhaps  this  lady/'  indicating  Miss  Milner,  "could 
inform  us?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  observed  a  gentlemanly 
voice  near  them;  and,  looking  up,  Dick  found  him- 
self confronted  by  the  young  clergyman.  "I  over- 
heard your  inquiries,  and,  as  I  am  acquainted  with 
the  ladies  in  question,  I  may  be  able  to  satisfy  you. " 

"I  should  be  extremely  obliged  to  you  if  you 
would  do  so,  sir,"  returned  the  elder  man,  with 
alacrity ;  but  Dick  turned  away  rather  ungraciously, 
and  his  cheerful  face  grew  sullen. 


324  NO1   LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"Confound  him!  \vhat>does  he  mean  by  his  inter- 
ference? Knows  them,  indeed!  such  a  handsome 
beggar,  too — a  prig,  one  can  see  that  from  the  cut 
of  his  clothes  and  beard!" — And  again  he  planted 
his  elbows  on  the  counter,  and  began  pulling  his 
rough  little  stubby  mustache. 

"If  you  are  referring  to  a  mother  and  three 
daughters  who  live  in  the  Friary  and  eke  out  a 
scanty  income  by  taking  in  dressmaking,  I  am 
happy  to  say  I  know  them  well,"  went  on  Archie. 
"My  sister  and  I  visit  at  the  cottage,  and  they 
attend  my  church;  and,  as  Miss  Milnercan  tell  you, 
they  work  hard  enough  all  the  six  days  of  the 
week/* 

44 Indeed,  Mr.  Drummond,  there  are  few  that  work 
harder!"  broke  in  Miss  Milner,  volubly.  "Such 
pretty  creatures,  too,  to  earn  their  own  living;  and 
yet  they  have  a  bright  word  and  a  smile  for  every- 
body! Ever  since  Phillis"  (here  Dick  groaned) 
"made  that  blue  dress  for  Mrs.  Trimmings — she  is 
che  butcher's  wife,  and  a  dressy  woman,  though  not 
flashy  like  Mrs.  Squails — they  have  been  quite  the 
rage  in  Hadleigh.  All  the  townspeople,  and  the 
resident  gentry,  and  even  the  visitors,  want  their 
gowns  made  by  the  Miss  Challoners.  Their  fit  is 
perfect,  and  they  have  such  taste.  And—"  But 
here  the  luckless  Dick  could  bear  no  more. 

"If  you  will  excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said,  addressing 
his  bewildered  father,  "I  have  left  something  par- 
ticular at  the  hotel;  I  must  just  run  and  tetch  it." 

Dick  did  not  specify  whether  it  was  his  handker- 
chief or  his  cigat-case,  or  his  purse,  of  which  he 
stood  so  urgently  in  need;  but  before  Mr.  Mayne 
could  remonstrate  he  had  gone  out  of  the  shop.  He 
went  as  far  as  the  door  of  the  hotel,  and  there  he 
seized  on  a  passing  waiter,  and  questioned  him  in  a 
breathless  manner.  Having  obtained  his  informa- 
tion, he  set  off  at  a  walk  that  was  almost  a  run 
through  the  town,  and  down  the  Braidwood  Road. 
The  few  foot-passengers  that  he  met  shrunk  out  of 


NOT  LIKE  OThKR  GiRLS  325 

the  way  of  this  young  man;  ior  he  walked,  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  as  though  he 
saw  nothing  before  him.  And  his  eyes  were 
gloomy,  and  he  did  not  whistle ;  and  the  only  words 
he  said  to  himself  were,  "Oh,  Nan,  never  to  have 
told  me  of  this!"  over  and  over  again, 

The  gate  of  the  Friary  stood  open,  for  a  small 
boy  had  been  washing  the  flags,  and  had  left  his 
pail,  and  gone  off  to  play  marbles  in  the  road  with 
a  younger  brother.  Dick,  who  understood  the 
bearings  of  the  case  at  once,  shook  his  fist  at  the 
truant  behind  his  back,  and  then  turned  in  at  the 
gate. 

He  peeped  in  at  the  hall  door  first;  but  Dorothy 
was  peeling  potatoes  in  the  kitchen,  and  would  see 
him  as  he  passed,  so  he  skirted  the  little  path  under 
the  yews.  And  if  Dulce  had  been  at  her  sewing- 
machine  as  usual,  she  would  have  seen  him  at  once; 
but  this  morning  the  machine  was  silent. 

A  few  steps  further  he  came  to  a  full  stop,  anc] 
his  eyes  began  to  glisten,  and  he  pricked  up  his  ears 
after  the  manner  of  lovers;  for,  through  an  opeq 
window  just  behind  him  he  could  hear  Nan's  voice, 
sweet  and  musical,  reading  aloud  to  her  sisters. 

"Oh,  the  darling!"  he  murmured,  and  compose^ 
himself  for  a  few  moments'  ecstasy,  for  no  doubt 
she  was  reading  Tennyson,  or  Barrett  Browning,  o* 
one  of  the  poetry  books  he  had  given  her;  but  hq 
was  a  little  disappointed  when  he  found  it  was 
prose. 

44  'With  regard  to  washing-dresses,'  read  Nan,  in 
her  clear  tones,  *cottons,  as  a  general  thing,  have 
another  material  made  up  with  them;  the  under- 
skirt may  be  of  foulard  or  satin — '  " 

<A  'Oh,  I  dare  say!  What  nonsensical  extrava- 
gance!" observed  Phillis. 

44 'Or  the  bodice  of  surah,  satin,  cashmere  or 
llama,  and  the  skirt  of  cotton.  .  .  .  The  skirts  are 
nearly  always  made  with  single  box-plaits,  with  a 
flat  surface  in  the  center,  and  a  flat  band  of  trim- 


826  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

ming  is  often  stitched  on  at  about  five  inches  from 
the  edge  of  the  flounce. '  I  should  say  that  would 
be  sweetly  pretty,  dear:  we  might  try  it  for  Mrs. 
Penlip's  dress.  And  just  listen  to  a  little  more. " 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  blurted  out 
Dick.  "Oh,  Nan!  Nan!  how  could  you  be  such  a 
traitor — washing-dresses,  indeed,  and  me  left  in 
ignorance!"  And  there  was  Dick,  his  face  glow- 
ing and  indignant,  standing  in  the  window,  with 
Laddie  barking  furiously  at  him, and  his  outstretched 
hand  nearly  touching  Nan. 

Phillis  and  Dulce  screamed  with  surprise,  being- 
young  and  easily  excited;  but  Nan  only  said,  "Oh, 
Dick!"  very  faintly;  and  her  sweet  face  grew  red 
and  pale  by  turns,  and  her  fingers  fluttered  a  little 
in  his  grasp,  but  only  for  joy  and  the  sheer  delight 
of  seeing  him. 

As  for  Dick,  his  eyes  shone,  but  his  manner  was 
masterful. 

"Look  here!"  he  said,  drawing  Nan's  advertis- 
ment  from  his  pocket:  "we  had  come  down  here  to 
surprise  you  girls,  and  to  have  a  little  fun  and  tennis; 
and  I  meant  to  have  treated  you  to  the  public 
ground  at  the  hotel,  as  I  knew  you  had  only  a 
scrubby  little  bit  of  lawnf  and  this  is  what  has  met 
my  eyes  this  morning!  You  have  deceived  mother 
and  me;  you  have  let  us  enjoy  our  holiday,  which  1 
didn't  a  bit,  for  I  had  a  sort  of  nasty  presentiment 
and  a  heap  of  uncomfortable  thoughts;  and  all  this 
while  you  were  slaving  away  at  this  hideous  dress- 
making— 1  wish  I  could  burn  the  whole  rag,  tag, 
and  bobtail — and  never  let  us  know  you  wanted  any- 
thing. And  you  call  that  being  friends!" 

"Yes,  and  the  best  of  friends,  too,"  responded 
Phillis  cheerfully,  for  Nan  was  too  much  crushed 
by  all  this  eloquence  to  answer.  "Come  along, 
Dulce!  don't  listen  any  more  to  this  nonsense, 
when  you  know  your  mother  is  wanting  us.  Dick 
is  all  very  well  when  he  is  in  a  good  humor,  but 
time  and  dressmaking  wait  for  no  man. "  And  the 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  d27 

young  hypocrite  dragged  the  unwilling  Dulcc  away. 
"Can't  you  leave  them  alone  to  come  to  an  under- 
standing?" whispered  Phillis  in  her  ear,  when  they 
got  outside  the  door.  "I  can  see  it  in  his  eyes; 
and  Nan  is  on  the  verge  of  crying,  she  is  so  upset 
with  surprisec  And,  you  goose,  where  are  you 
going  now?" 

"To  mother.     Did  you  not  say  she  wanted  us?" 

"Oh,  you  silly  child!"  returned  Phillis,  calmly: 
"does  not  mother  always  want  us?  One  must  say 
what  comes  uppermost  in  one's  mind  in  emergencies 
of  this  sort.  But  for  me,  you  would  have  stood 
there  for  an  hour  staring  at  them.  Mother  is  out, 
as  it  happens:  if  you  like  we  will  go  and  meet  her. 
Oh,  no,  I  forgot:  Dick  is  a  young  man,  and  it  would 
not  be  proper.  Let  us  go  into  the  kitchen  and  help 
Dorothy."  And  away  they  went. 

"Phillis  is  a  trump!"  thought  Dick,  as  he  shut 
the  door.  "I  love  that  girl."  And  then  he 
marched  up  to  Nan  and  took  her  hands  boldly. 

4uNow,  Nan,  you  owe  me  amends  for  this;  at  least 
you  will  say  you  are  sorry." 

"No,  Dick,"  hanging  her  head,  for  she  could  not 
face  his  look,  he  was  so  masterful  and  determined 
with  her,  and  so  unlike  the  easy  Dick  of  old.  "1 
am  not  a  bit  sorry:  I  would  not  have  spoiled  your 
holiday  for  worlds." 

"My  holiday!  a  precious  holiday  it  was  without 
you!  A  lot  of  stupid  climbing,  with  grinning  idiots 
for  company.  Well,  nevermind  that,"  his  wrath- 
ful tone  changing  in  a  moment.  "So  you  kept 
mj  in  the  dark  just  for  my  own  good?" 

"Yes,  of  course,  Dick.  What  an  unnecessary 
question!" 

"And  you  wanted  me,  Nan?" 

"Yes,"  very  faintly,  and  there  was  a  little  tear- 
drop on  one  of  Nan's  lashes. 

She  had  been  so  miserable — how  miserable  he 
would  never  know;  but  he  need  not  have  asked  her 
that 


328  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"Oh,  very  well:  then  I  won't  bother  you  with  any 
more  questions.  Now  we  understand  each  other, 
and  can  just  go  to  business." 

Nan  looked  up  in  his  face  in  alarm.  She  antici- 
pated another  lecture,  but  nothing  of  the  sort  came. 
Dick  cleared  his  throat,  got  a  little  red,  and  went 
on: 

44 1  say  settle  our  business,  because  we  have  been 
as  good  as  engaged  all  these  years.  You  know  you 
belong  to  me,  Nan?" 

44 Yes,  Dick,"  she  returned,  obediently;  for  she 
was  too  much  taken  by  surprise  to  know  what  she 
ought  to  say,  and  the  two  words  escaped  from  her 
almost  unconsciously. 

4 'There  never  was  a  time  we  wer<=*  not  fond  of 
each  other — ever  since  you  were  so  high,"  pointing 
to  what  would  represent  the  height  of  an  extremely 
dwarfish  infant  of  seven  or  eight  months. 

4 'Oh,  not  so  long  ago  as  that,"  returned  Nan, 
laughing  a  little. 

"Quite  as  long,"  repeated  Dick,  solemnly.  *'I 
declare,  I  have  been  so  fond  of  you  all  my  life,  Nan, 
that  I  have  been  the  happiest  fellow  in  the  world. 
Now,  look  here:  just  say  after  me,  'Dick,  I  prom- 
ise on  my  word  and  honor  to  marry  you. '  " 

Nan  repeated  the  words,  and  then  she  paused  in 
affright. 

"4But  your  father!"  she  gasped — t4and  the  dress- 
making! Oh,  Dick!  what  have  you  made  me  say? 
You  have  startled  me  into  forgetting  everything. 
Oh,  dear!  what  shall  I  do?"  continued  Nan,  in  the 
most  innocent  way.  44We  shall  be  engaged  all  our 
lives,  for  he  will  never  allow  you  to  marry  me. 
Dick,  dear  Dick,  please  let  me  off!  I  never  meant 
to  give  in  like  this." 

*4Never  mind  what  you  meant  to  do,"  returned 
Dick,  with  the  utmost  gravity:  44the  thing  is,  you 
ha^e  done  it.  On  your  word  and  honor,  Nan,  re- 
member. Now  we  are  engaged. " 

6Oh,  but  Dick,  please  don't  take  such  advantage 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  §29 

of  me,  just  because  I  said — or,  at  least,  you  said — I 
was  fond  of  you.  What  will  mother  say?  She  will 
be  so  dreadfully  shocked;  and  it  is  so  cruel  to  your 
father.  I  will  be  engaged  to  you  in  a  way.  I  will 
promise — 1  will  vow,  if  you  will — never  to  marry 
any  one  else." 

44 1  should  think  not,"  interrupted  Dick,  fiercely. 
**I  would  murder  the  fellow,  whoever  he  was!" 
and  in  spite  of  himself,  his  thoughts  reverted  to  the 
fair  beard  and  handsome  face  of  the  young  clergy- 
man 

Nan  saw  from  his  obstinate  face  that  her  eloquence 
was  all  wasted;  but  she  made  one  more  attempt, 
blushing  like  a  rose: 

"I  will  even  promise  to  marry  you,  if  your  father 
gives  his  consent.  You  know,  Dick,  I  would  never 
go  against  him,," 

**Nor  I.  You  ought  to  know  me  better,  Nan, 
than  to  think  1  should  act  shabbily  and  leave  the 
dear  old  fellow  in  the  dark." 

"Then  you  will  set  me  free,"  marveling  a  little 
over  her  lover's  good  sense  and  filial  stibmission. 

"As  free  as  an  engagement  permits.  Why,  what 
do  you  mean,  Nan?  Have  1  not  just  told  you  we 
are  engaged  for  good  and  all?  Do  you  suppose  I  do 
not  mean  to  tell  my  father  so  on  the  first  oppor- 
tunity? There  he  comes!  bless  the  man,  I  knew  he 
would  follow  me!  Now  you  shall  see  how  I  can 
stick  up  for  the  girl  I  love."  But  Dick  thought  it 
better  to  release  the  hand  he  had  been  holding  all 
this  time. 

There  are  certain  moments  in  life  when  one  is  in 
too  exalted  a  mood  to  feel  the  usual  sensations  that 
circumstances  might  warrant.  At  another  time 
Nan  would  have  been  shocked  at  the  condition  of 
her  work-room,  being  a  tidy  little  soul,  and  thrifty 
as  to  pins  and  other  odds  and  ends;  and  the  thought 
of  Mr.  Mayne  coming  upon  them  unexpectedly 
would  have  frightened  her  out  of  her  senses. 

The  room  was  certainly   not  in  its  usual  order, 

22  Other  Girls 


880  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

There  had  been  much  business  transacted  there  that 
morning.  The  table  was  strewn  with  breadths  of 
gay  broche  silk;  an  unfinished  gauzy-looking  dress 
hung  over  a  chair;  the  door  of  the  ward-robe  was 
open,  and  a  row  of  dark-looking  shapes — like  Blue- 
beard's decapitated  wives — were  dimly  revealed  to 
view.  A  sort  of  lay  figure,  draped  in  calico,  was  in 
one  corner.  As  Nan  observed  to  Phillis  afterward, 
"There  was  not  a  tidy  corner  in  the  whole  room." 

Nevertheless,  the  presence  of  Dick  so  glorified 
the  place  that  Nan  looked  around  at  the  chaos  quite 
calmly,  as  she  heard  Mr.  Mayne's  sharp  voice  first 
inquiring  for  her  mother  and  then  for  herself. 

Dorothy,  with  her  usual  tact,  would  have  shown 
him  into  the  little  parlor;  but  Nan,  who  wished  for 
no  disguise,  stepped  forward  and  threw  open  the 
door. 

44 1  am  here,  Dorothy.  Come  in,  Mr.  Mayne. 
Dick  is  here  too,  and  I  am  so  sorry  mother  is  out." 

44 1  might  have  known  that  scapegrace  would  have 
given  me  the  slip!"  muttered  Mr.  Mayne,  as  he 
shook  hands  ungraciously  with  Nan,  and  then  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  work-room. 

Dick,  who  was  examining  the  wardrobe,  turned 
round  and  saluted  his  father  with  a  condescending 
nod: 

"You  were  too  long  with  the  parson:  I  could  not 
wait,  you  see.  Did  you  make  all  these  dresses.  Nan? 
You  are  awfully  clever,  you  girls!  They  look  first 
rate — this  greeny-browny-yellowish  one,  for  exam- 
ple," pulling  out  a  much  furbelowed  garment  des- 
tined for  Mrs.  Squails. 

44 Oh,  Dick,  do  please  leave  them  alone!"  and  Nan 
authoritatively  waved  him  away  and  closed  the 
vardrobe. 

*4I  was  only  admiring  your  handiwork,"  returned 
Dick,  imperturbably.  "Does  she  not  look  a  charm- 
ing little  dressmaker,  father?"  regarding  Nan  with 
undisguised  pleasure,  as  she  stood  in  her  pretty  bib- 
apron  before  them. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GJRLS.  381 

But  Mr-  Mayne  only  drew  his  heavy  eyebrows  to- 
gether  and  said: 

"Pshaw,  Dick!  don't  chatter  such  folly.  I  want 
to  have  some  talk  with  Miss  Nancy  myself.'* 

"All  right:  I  have  had  my  innings/'  returned 
naughty  Dick ;  but  he  shot  a  look  at  Nan  that  made 
her  blush  to  her  finger-ends,  and  that  was  not  lost 
on  Mr.  Mayne. 

"Well,  now,  Miss  Nancy,  what  does  all  this 
mean?"  he  asked,  harshly.  "Here  we  have  run 
down  just  in  a  friendly  way — Dick  and  I — leaving 
the  mother  rather  knocked  up  after  her  travels  at 
Longmead,  to  look  you  up  and  see  how  you  are  get- 
ting on.  And  now  we  find  you  have  been  deceiving 
us  all  along,  and  keeping  us  in  the  dark,  and  that 
you  are  making  yourselves  the  talk  of  the  place, 
sewing  a  parcel  of  gowns  for  all  the  towns-people." 

Mr.  Mayne  did  not  add  that  his  son  had  so 
bothered  him  for  the  last  three  weeks  to  run  down 
to  Hadleigh  that  he  had  acceded  at  last  to  his  re- 
quest, in  the  hope  of  enjoying  a  little  peace. 

"Draw  it  mild!"  muttered  Dick,  who  did  not 
much  admire  this  opening  tirade ;  but  Nan  answered 
with  much  dignity: 

"If  people  talk  about  us  it  is  because  of  the  nov- 
elty. They  have  never  heard  of  gentlepeople  doing 
this  sort  of  work  before — " 

"I  should  think  not!"  wrathfully  from  Mr. 
Mayne. 

"Things  were  so  bad  with  us  that  we  should  have 
all  had  to  separate  if  Phillis  had  not  planned  this 
scheme;  and  then  mother  would  have  broken  her 
heart;  but  now  we  are  getting  on  famously.  Our 
work  gives  satisfaction,  we  have  plenty  of  orders; 
we  do  not  forfeit  people's  good  opinions,  for  we 
have  nothing  but  respect  shown  us,  and — " 

But  here  Mr.  Mayne  interrupted  her  flow  of  quiet 
eloquence  somewhat  rudely. 

"Pack  of  nonsense!"  he  exclaimed,  angrily.  **I 
wonder  at  your  mother — I  do  indeed.  I  thought 


<m  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

she  had  more  sense.  You  have  no  right  to  outrage 
your  friends  in  this  way!  it  is  treating  us  badly. 
What  will  your  mother  say,  Dick?  She  will  be 
dreadfully  shocked.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  my  boy — I 
am  indeed:  but,  under  the  circumstances " 

But  what  he  was  about  to  add  was  checked  by 
a  very  singular  proceeding  on  the  part  of  his  son; 
for  Dick  suddenly  took  Nan's  hand  and  drew  her 
forward. 

44 Don't  be  sorry  for  me,  father;  I  am  the  happi- 
est fellow  alive.  Nan  and  I  have  come  to  an  under- 
standing at  last,  after  all  these  years.  Allow  me  to 
present  to  you  the  future  Mrs.  Richard  Mayne. " 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

DICK    THINKS   OF    THE   CITY. 

When  Dick  had  uttered  this  audacious  speech,  Mr. 
Mayne  started  back,  and  his  expression  of  mingled 
wrath  and  dismay  was  so  ludicrous  that  und^r  any 
other  circumstances  his  son  would  have  found  it 
difficult  to  keep  his  countenance. 

"What!  what!"  he  almost  shouted,  losing  all 
sense  of  politeness,  and  even  of  Nan's  presence; 
"you  young  fool,  what  do  you  mean  by  trumping 
up  this  nonsense  and  presuming  to  talk  to  me  in 
this  way?" 

Dick  thought  it  prudent  to  drop  Nan's  hand — and, 
indeed,  the  girl  shrunk  away  from  them  both  in 
alarm  at  this  outburst:  nevertheless,  his  counten- 
ance and  bearing  maintained  the  same  admirable 
sa?ig  froid  as  he  confronted  his  angry  parent, 

"Now,  father,  what  is  the  use  of  calling  me 
names?  When  a  fellow  is  of  age,  and  knows  his 
own  mind,  he  does  not  care  a  pin  for  being  called  a 
fool.  *Hard  words  break  no  bones,'  as  our  copy- 
leaves  used  to  tell  us— >no,  1  have  not  got  that  quite 
right,  but  that  is  about  my  meaning.  Look  here, 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  S33 

father,"  he  continued,  in  a  coaxing,  boyish  voice ; 
"I  have  cared  for  Nan  ever  since  she  was  a  little 
creature  so  high, "  again  reverting  to  the  infantile 
measurement.  "I  have  always  meant  to  marry  her 
—that  is,  if  she  would  have  me/'  correcting  him- 
self, as  Nan  drew  herself  up  a  little  proudly. 
41  Money  or  no  money,  there  is  not  another  girl  in 
England  that  I  would  have  for  a  wife.  I  would 
wait  for  her  if  I  had  to  wait  half  my  life,  just  the 
same  as  she  would  wait  for  me;  and  so,  as  1  said 
before,  when  a  fellow  has  made  up  his  mind,  there 
is  nothing  more  to  say. "  And  here  Dick  pursed  up 
his  lips  for  a  whistle,  but  thought  better  of  it,  and 
fell  to  twisting  and  untwisting  the  ends  of  his  sandy 
mustache. 

Nan's  downcast  eyes  revealed  nothing.  But  if 
Dick  could  only  have  seen  the  happy  look  in  them! 
What  eloquence  could  ever  have  been  so  dear  to  her 
as  that  clear  rough-and-ready  statement  of  her 
lover's  feelings  for  her?  "There  is  not  another  girl 
in  England  that  I  would  have  for  a  wife."  Could 
anything  surpass  the  beauty  of  that  sentence?  Oh, 
how  manly,  how  true  he  was,  this  Dick  of  hers! 

"Oh,  indeed!  I  am  to  say  nothing,  am  Ir"  re- 
turned Mr.  Mayne,  with  exquisite  irony.  "My  son 
is  to  dictate  to  me;  and  I  am  to  be  silent!  Oh,  you 
young  fool!"  he  muttered  under  his  breath;  but 
then  for  the  moment  words  seemed  to  fail  him. 

In  spite  of  the  wrath  that  was  boiling  within  him, 
and  to  which  he  did  not  dare  give  vent  in  Nan's 
presence,  in  spite  of  the  grief  and  disappointment 
that  his  son's  defiance  had  caused  him,  Dick's  bear- 
ing filled  him  with  admiration  and  amazement. 

This  boy  of  his  was  worth  something,  he  thought 
He  had  a  clear  head  of  his  own  and  could  speak  to 
some  purpose.  Was  a  likely  young  fellow  like  this 
to  be  thrown  away  on  that  Ghalloner  girl?  Poor 
Nan!  Pretty  and  blooming  as  she  looked,  Mr. 
Mayne  felt  almost  as  though  he  hated  her.  Why 
bad  she  coine  between  his  bov  and  him?  Had  he  & 


384  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

dozen  sons,  that  he  could  spare  one  of  them?  Was 
not  Dick  his  only  one — the  son  of  his  right  hand, 
his  sole  hope  and  ambition?  Mr.  Mayne  could  have 
wept  as  these  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Nan  thought  it  right 
to  speak.  Dick  had  had  his  say,  but  it  was  not  for 
her  to  be  silent. 

"Mr.  Mayne,  please  listen  to  me  a  moment,1'  she 
said,  pleadingly.  "No;  I  must  speak  to  your 
father,"  as  Dick,  much  alarmed,  tried  to  silence  her. 
"He  must  not  think  hard  things  of  us,  and  misun- 
derstand us." 

"No,  dear;  indeed  you  had  better  be  silent!" 
implored  Dick,  anxiously;  but  Nan  for  once  turned 
a  deaf  ear  to  him. 

"I  must  speak,"  she  persisted.  "Mr.  Mayne,  it 
is  quite  true  what  Dick  says:  we  have  been  together 
all  our  lives,  and  have  grown  to  care  for  each  other. 
I  can  not  remember  the  time,"  the  tears  coming 
into  her  bright  eyes,  "when  Dick  was  not  more  to 
me  than  a  brother;  it  is  all  of  such  long  standing, 
it  is  far,  far  too  late  to  stop  it  now. " 

"We  shall  see  about  that,  Miss  Nancy,"  muttered 
Mr.  Mayne,  between  his  teeth ;  but  the  girl  did  not 
seem  to  hear  him. 

"Dick  took  me  by  surprise  just  now.  I  ought  to 
have  been  more  on  my  guard,  and  not  have  given 
him  that  promise. " 

"What  promise?"  demanded  Mr.  Mayne,  harshly; 
•and  Nan  hung  her  head,  and  returned,  shyly: 

"That  I  would  marry  him  sometime;  but,  indeed 
— indeed  he  made  me  say  it,  :  ,nd  I  was  so  taken  by 
surprise.  No,  Dick;  you  must  let  me  finish,"  for 
Dick  was  looking  at  her  with  piteous  entreaty  in  his 
eyes.  "I  know  we  were  wrong  to  say  so  much 
without  your  leave;  but  indeed  I  will  do  your  son 
no  harm.  I  can  not  marry  any  one  else,  because  I 
am  engaged  to  him ;  but  as  far  as  be  is  concerned 
he  is  free.  I  will  never  marry  him  without  your 
permission ;  he  shall  not  come  here  if  you  do  not 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  3S5 

wish;  but  do  not  be  so  angry  with  us;"  and  here 
her  lip  quivered.  "If  you  did  not  mean  this  to  hap- 
pen, you  should  have  kept  us  apart  all  these  years. " 

"Oh,  hush,  dear!"  whispered  Dick  in  her  ear; 
but  Mr.  Mayne  almost  thrust  him  aside,  and  laid  a 
rough  grasp  on  the  girl's  wrist.  "Never  mind  him : 
answer  me  one  question.  Are  you  serious  in  what 
you  say,  that  you  will  never  marry  him  without  my 
permission?" 

"Of  course  I  will  not,"  answered  Nan,  quite 
shocked.  "Dick  would  not  ask  me  to  do  such  a 
thing:  he  is  far  too  honorable,  and — and — no  one 
would  think  of  such  thing." 

"Very  well;  that  is  all  I  wanted  to  know,"  and 
he  released  her,  not  overgently:  "the  rest  I  can 
settle  with  Master  Dick  himself.  Good-morning, 
Miss  Nancy:  under  the  circumstances,  I  do  not 
think  1  will  wait  to  see  your  mother.  1  am  not 
quite  in  the  mood  for  ladies;  perhaps,  later  on,  I 
may  have  something  to  say  to  her." 

"Don't  you  mean  to  shake  hands  with  me,  Mr. 
Mayne?"  asked  poor  Nan,  much  distressed  at  the 
evil  temper  of  Dick's  father;  but  there  was  no  sign 
of  softening. 

"Yes;  I  will  shake  hands  with  you,  and  gladly,  if 
you  will  promise  to  be  sensible,  and  send  this  boy 
of  mine  about  his  business.  Come  now,  Nan;  own 
for  my  comfort  that  it  is  only  a  bit  of  boy-and-girl 
nonsense  that  means  nothing.  I  am  not  overpartic- 
ular, and  do  not  object  to  a  bit  of  flirting  with 
young  folk/' 

"You  had  better  go  with  your  father,  Dick," 
returned  Nan,  with  much  dignity,  and  quite  ignor- 
ing his  speech. 

Dick  seized  the  little  hand  that  had  been  so  rudely 
rejected,  and  kissed  it  under  his  father's  eyes. 

"I  will  see  you  again  somehow,"  he  whispered; 
and  Nan  was  quite  content  with  this  promise.  Dick 
would  keep  his  word,  she  knew:  he  would  not  leave 
Hadleigh  without  seeing 


336  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

A  very  unpleasant  hour  ensued  for  poor  Dick. 
Mr.  Mayne  was  in  one  of  his  worst  tempers;  he  had 
conducted  himself  to  Nan  in  an  ungentlemanly 
manner,  and  he  knew  it;  as  Dick  said  to  himself: 

"It  is  very  hard  on  a  fellow  when  one's  father 
acts  like  a  cad." 

Mr.  Mayne  had  shown  himself  a  cad.  No  gentle- 
man by  birth  or  breeding  would  have  conducted 
himself  in  that  offensive  way.  Bad  temper  had 
broken  down  the  trammels  of  conventionality; 
never  before  in  his  life  had  Dick  felt  so  utterly 
ashamed  of  his  father.  Mr.  Mayne  was  conscious 
of  his  son's  criticism,  and  it  made  things  worse.  It 
spoke  well  for  Dick's  prudence  and  self-command 
that  he  let  the  storm  of  his  father's  anger  break 
over  his  head,  and  said  no  word.  Mr.  Mayne  ranted 
and  raved;  I  am  afraid  he  even  swore  once  or  twice 
— at  least  his  language  was  undesirably  strong — and 
Dick  walked  beside  him  and  held  his  peace.  "Poor 
old  boy,  he  is  terribly  cut  up  about  this!"  he  thought 
once. 

Mr.  Drummond  saw  them  coming  along,  and 
wondered  at  the  energy  of  the  older  man.  Was  it 
the  visit  to  the  Friary  that  had  put  him  out?  and 
then  he  fell  anew  to  cogitation.  Who  were  these 
people  who  were  so  curious  about  the  Challoners? 
At  least  that  sulky  young  fellow  had  taken  no 
apparent  interest,  for  he  had  made  an  excuse  to 
leave  them;  but  the  other  one  had  persisted  in  very 
close  investigation.  Perhaps  he  was  some  relation 
— an  uncle  or  a  distant  cousin;  evidently  he  had 
some  right  or  claim  to  be  displeased.  Archie 
determined  to  solve  the  mystery  as  soon  as  possible. 

"Well,  sir,  have  you  nothing  to  say  for  yourself?" 
demanded  Mr.  Mayne,  when  he  had  fairly  exhausted 
himself.  He  had  disinherited  Dick  half  a  dozen 
times;  he  had  deprived  him  of  his  liberal  allowance; 
he  had  spoken  of  a  projected  voyage  to  New  Zeal- 
and; and  Dick  had  only  walked  on  steadily,  and 
thought  of  tike  cold,  trembling  little  hand  he  had 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  $*7 

kissed.      "Have  you  nothing  to  say  for  yourself ?*' 
he  vociferated. 

Dick  woke  tip  at  this. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  plenty  to  say,"  he  returned, 
cheerfully:  "but  two  can  not  talk  at  once,  you 
know.  It  was  right  for  you  to  have  the  first  innings, 
and  all  that;  and  1  say,  father" — his  filial  feelings 
coming  to  the  surface — "I  am  awfully  sorry,  and  so 
is  Nan,  to  see  you  so  vexed." 

"Speak  for  yourself/1  was  the  wrathful  answer. 
"Don't  mention  that  girl's  name  in  my  hearing 
for  the  present." 

"Whose  name?  Nan's?"  returned  Dick,  inno- 
cently. "I  don't  see  how  we  are  to  keep  it  out  of 
the  conversation,  when  the  row  is  all  about  her. 
Look  here,  father:  I  say  again  I  am  awfully  sorry 
you  are  vexed ;  but,  as  N —  she  says,  it  is  too  late  to 
mend  matters  now.  I  have  made  my  choice,  for 
better  for  worse,  and  I  am  sorry  it  does  not  please 
you." 

"Please  me!"  retorted  Mr.  Mayne;  and  then  he 
added,  venomously:  "The  girl  said  you  would  not 
marry  without  my*  permission;  but  I  will  never 
give  it.  Come,  Dick,  it  is  no  use  thwarting  me  in 
this:  you  are  our  only  child,  and  we  have  other 
plans  for  you.  Pshaw!  you  are  only  a  boy!  You 
have  not  seen  the  world  yet.  There  are  dozens  of 
girls  far  prettier  than  Miss  Nan.  Give  this  nonsense 
up,  and  there  is  nothing  I  will  not  do  for  you:  you 
shall  travel,  have  your  liberty,  do  as  you  like  for 
the  next  two  or  three  years,  and  I  will  not  worry 
you  about  marrying.  Why,  you  are  only  one-and- 
twenty :  and  you  have  two  more  years  of  University 
life!  What  an  idea— a  fine  young  fellow  like  you 
talking  of  tying  yourself  down  to  matrimony!" 

"There  is  no  use  of  my  going  back  to  Oxford, 
father,"  returned  Dick,  steadily;  "thank  you  kindly 
all  the  same,  but  it  would  be  sheer  waste  of  money. 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  go  into  the  city:  it  is 
the  fashionable  thing  nowadays.  And  one  does  not 


388  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 

need  Greek  and  Latin  for  that,  though,  of  course,  it 
is  an  advantage  to  a  fellow,  and  gives  him  a  stand- 
ing; but,  as  I  have  to  get  my  own  living,  I  can  not 
afford  the  two  years.  Your  old  chums,  Stanfield  & 
Stanfield,  would  give  me  a  berth  at  once." 

"Is  the  boy  mad?  What  on  earth  do  you  mean 
by  all  this  tomfoolery?"  demanded  Mr.  Mayne, 
unable  to  believe  his  ears.  His  small  gray  eyes 
opened  widely  and  irately  on  his  son;  but  Dick  took 
no  notice.  He  walked  on,  with  his  shoulders  lock- 
ing rather  square  and  determined;  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  were  working  rebelliously;  evidently  he 
did  not  care  to  look  at  his  father,  for  fear  of  break- 
ing into  incontroliable  laughter.  Really,  the  dear 
old  boy  was  getting  too  absurd;  he — Dick — could 
not  stand  it  much  longer.  "What  in  the  name  of 
all  that  is  foolish  do  you  mean,  sir?"  thundered  Mr. 
Mayne. 

Dick  executed  a  low  whistle,  and  then  he  said,  in 
an  aggrieved  voice: 

"Well,  father,  I  don't  call  you  very  consistent.  I 
suppose  I  know  what  being  disinherited  means.  In 
plain  language,  you  have  told  me  about  half  a  dozen 
times  that  if  I  stick  to  Nan  I  am  not  to  expect  a 
shilling  of  your  money.  Now,  in  my  own  mind,  of 
course  I  call  that  piecious  hard  on  a  fellow,  consid- 
ering I  have  not  been  such  a  bad  sort  of  son  after  all. 
But  I  am  not  going  to  quarrel  with  you  about  that: 
a  man  has  a  right  to  do  as  he  likes  with  his  own 
money." 

"Yes;  but,  Dick,  you  are  going  to  be  sensible, 
you  know,  and  drop  the  girl?"  in  a  wheedling  sort 
of  tone. 

"Excuse  me,  father;  I  am  going  to  do  nothing  of 
the  kind,"  returned  Dick,  with  sudden  firmness. 
"I  am  going  to  stick  to  her,  as  you  did  to  my 
mother;  and  for  just  as  long,  if  it  must  be  so.  I 
am  not  a  bit  afraid  that  you  will  not  give  your  per- 
mission, if  we  only  wait  long  enough  to  prove  that 
we  are  !$•  earnest,  The  only  thing  I  am  anxious 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  889 

about  is  how  I  am  to  get  my  living;  and  that  is  why 
I  will  not  consent  to  waste  any  more  time  at  the 
University.  The  bar  is  too  up-hill  work;  money  is 
made  quickest  in  the  city;  so,  if  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  give  me  an  introduction  to  Stanfield  & 
Stanfield — I  know  they  are  a  rattling  good  sort  of 
people — that  is  all  I  will  trouble  you  about  at  pres- 
ent." And  Dick  drew  in  along  breath  of  relief 
after  this  weighty  speech. 

"Do  you  mean  this,  Dick?"  asked  Mr.  Mayne, 
rather  feebly. 

They  had  reached  the  hotel  now,  and,  as  they 
entered  the  private  room  where  their  luncheon  was 
awaiting  them,  he  sat  down  as  though  he  had  grown 
suddenly  old  and  tired,  and  rested  his  head  on  his 
hands,  perhaps  to  hide  the  moisture  that  had  gath- 
ered under  his  shaggy  eyebrows. 

"Yes,  father,  I  do,"  returned  Dick;  but  he  spoke 
very  gently,  and  his  hand  touched  his  father's 
shoulder  caressingly.  "Let  me  give  you  some  wine: 
all  this  business  has  taken  it  out  of  you." 

"Yes,  I  have  had  a  blow,  Dick — my  only  boy  has 
given  me  a  blow,"  returned  Mr.  Mayne,  pathet- 
ically; but  as  he  took  the  wine  his  hand  trembled. 

"I  am  awfully  sorry,"  answered  Dick,  penitently. 
"If  it  were  anything  else  you  had  asked  me  but 
this — but  I  can  not  give  up  Nan."  And,  as  be  pro- 
nounced the  name,  Dick's  eyes  shone  with  pride  and 
tenderness.  He  was  a  soft-hearted,  affectionate 
young  fellow,  and  this  quarrel  with  his  father  was 
costing  him  a  great  deal  of  pain.  In  everything  else 
he  would  have  been  submissive  to  his  parents;  but 
now  he  had  a  purpose  and  responsibility  in  his  life: 
he  had  to  be  faithful  to  the  girl  whom  he  had  won; 
he  must  think  for  her  now  as  well  as  for  himself. 
How  sweet  was  this  sense  of  dual  existence,  this 
unity  of  heart  and  aim! 

Mr.  Mayne  fairly  groaned  as  he  read  the  expres- 
sion on  his  son's  face.  Dick's  youthful  countenance 
was  stamped  with  honest  resolution,  "I  am  going 


340  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

to  stick  to  her,  as  you  did  to  my  mother" — that  was 
what  he  had  said.  If  this  were  true,  it  was  all  over 
with  Dick's  chances  with  the  pretty  little  heiress;  he 
would  never  look  at  her  or  her  thirty  thousand 
pounds;  "but  all  the  same  he,  Richard  Mayne, 
would  never  consent  to  his  son  marrying  a  dress- 
maker. If  she  had  on]y  not  disgraced  herself,  if 
she  had  not  brought  this  humiliation  on  them,  he 
might  have  been  brought  to  listen  to  their  pleading 
in  good  time  and  at  his  own  pleasure;  but  now, 
never!  never!"  he  muttered,  and  set  his  teeth  hard. 

4 'Dick/'  he  said,  suddenly,  for  there  had  been 
utter  silence  for  a  space. 

"Yes,  father.0 

"You  have  upset  me  very  much,  and  made  me 
very  unhappy;  but  I  wish  you  to  say  nothing  to 
your  mother,  and  we  will  talk  about  this  agam. 
Promise  me  one  thing — that  you  will  go  back  to 
Oxford,  at  least  until  Christmas." 

"What  is  the  good  of  that,  sir?"  asked  his  son, 
dubiously. 

"What  is  the  good  of  anything?  for  you  have 
taken  every  bit  of  pleasure  out  of  my  lite;  but  at 
least  you  can  do  as  much  as  this  for  me.'" 

"Oh,  yes,  father,  if  you  wish  it,"  returned  Dick, 
more  cheerfully;  "but  all  the  same  1  have  fixed 
upon  a  city  life." 

"We  will  talk  of  that  again,"  replied  his  father; 
"and  Dick,  we  go  home  to-morrow,  and,  unless  you 
promise  me  not  to  come  down  to  Hadieigh  between 
this  and  Christmas,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  speak  to 
Mrs.  Challoner." 

"Oh,  there  is  no  need  for  that,"  returned  Dick, 
sulkily. 

"You  give  me  your  word?r> 

'Oh,  yes,"  pushing  aside  nis  chair  with  a  kick. 
"It  would  be  no  use  coining  down  to  Hadieigh, 
for  Nan  would  not  speak  to  me.  I  know  her  too 
well  for  that.  She  has  got  such  a  conscience,  you 
know.  I  shall  write  her,  but  I  do  not  know  if  she 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  341 

will  answer  my  letters;  but  it  does  not  matter:  we 
shall  both  be  true  as  steel.  If  you  don't  want 
me  any  more,  I  think  1  will  have  a  cigar  on  the 
beach,  for  this  room  is  confoundedly  hot."  And, 
without  waiting  for  permission,  Dick  strode  off,  -still 
sulkily,  and  fully  aware  that  his  father  meant  to 
follow  him,  for  fear  of  his  footsteps  straying  again 
down  the  Braidwood  Road. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

**DICK   IS   TO    BE   OUR   REAL   BROTHER." 

Never  was  a  father  more  devoted  to  his  son's 
company  than  Mr.  Mayne  was  that  day.  Dick's 
cigar  was  hardly  alight  before  his  father  had  joined 
him.  When  Dick  grew  weary  of  throwing  stones 
aimlessly  at  imaginary  objects,  and  voted  the  beach 
slow,  Mr.  Mayne  proposed  a  walk  with  alacrity. 
They  dined  together — not  talking  much,  it  is  true, 
for  Dick  was  still  sulky,  and  his  father  tired  and 
inclined  to  headache,  but  keeping  up  a  show  pf  con- 
versation for  the  waiter's  benefit.  But  when  that 
functionary  had  retired,  and  the  wine  was  on  the 
table,  Dick  made  no  further  effort  to  be  agreeable, 
but  placed  himself  in  the  window-seat  and  stared 
moodily  at  the  sea,  while  his  father  watched  him 
and  drank  his  wine  in  silence. 

Mr.  Mayne  was  fighting  against  drowsiness 
valiantly. 

Dick  knew  this,  and  was  waiting  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  make  his  escape. 

"Had  we  not  better  ring  for  lights  and  coffee?" 
asked  his  father,  as  he  felt  the  first  ominous  sensa- 
tions stealing  over  him. 

44 Not  just  yet.  1  feel  rather  disposed  for  a  nap 
myself;  and  it  is  a  shame  to  shut  out  the  moon- 
light," returned  that  wicked  Dick,  calling  up  a  fib 
to  his  aid,  and  closing  his  eyes  as  he  spoke. 

The   bait   took.       In   another   five   minutes   Mr. 


M2  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Mayne  was  nodding  in  earnest,  and  Dick  on  tiptoe 
had  just  softly  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  was 
taking  his  straw  hat  from  its  peg. 

Nan  was  walking  up  and  down  the  little  dark 
lawii,  feeling  restless  and  out  of  sorts  after  the 
agitation  of  the  morning,  when  she  heard  a  low 
whistle  at  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  and  her  heart 
felt  suddenly  as  light  as  a  feather. 

Dick  saw  her  white  gown  as  she  came  down  the 
flagged  path  to  the  gate  to  let  him  in.  The  moon- 
light seemed  to  light  it  up  with  a  sort  of  glory. 

"You  are  a  darling  not  to  keep  me  waiting,  for 
we  have  not  a  moment  to  lose,"  he  whispered,  as 
she  came  up  close  to  him.  44He  is  asleep  now,  but 
he  will  wake  up  as  soon  as  he  misses  me.  Have 
you  expected  me  before,  Nan?  But  indeed  I  have 
not  been  left  to  myself  a  moment." 

"Oh,  I  knew  all  about  it,  my  poor  Dick,"  she 
answered,  looking  at  him  so  softly.  "  Phi  His  is  read- 
ing to  mother  in  the  parlor,  and  Duke  is  in  the 
work-room.  I  have  nowhere  to  ask  you  unless  you 
come  in  and  talk  to  them.  But  mother  is  too  upset 
to  see  you,  I  am  afraid." 

"Let  us  wait  here,"  returned  Dick,  boldly.  "No 
one  can  hear  what  we  say,  and  I  must  speak  to  you 
alone.  No;  I  had  better  not  see  your  mother  to- 
night, and  the  girls  would  be  in  the  way.  Shall 
you  be  tired,  dear,  if  you  stand  out  here  a  moment 
talking  to  me?  for  I  dare  not  wait  long." 

"Oh,  no,  I  shall  not  be  tired,"  answered  Nan, 
gently.  Tired,  when  she  had  her  own  Dick  near 
her — when  she  could  speak  to  him— look  at  him! 

"All  right;  but  it  is  my  duty  to  look  after  you, 
now  you  belong  to  me,"  returned  Dick,  proudly. 
"Whatever  happens — however  long  we  may  be  sep- 
arated— you  must  remember  that — that  you  belong 
to  me — that  you  will  have  to  account  to  me  if  you 
do  not  take  care  of  yourself  " 

Nan  smiled  happily  at  this,  and  then  she  said: 
"I  have   told  mother  all  about  it,    and  she  is 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  348 

dreadfully  distressed  about  your  father's  anger. 
She  cried  so,  and  took  his  part,  and  said  she  did  not 
wonder  that  he  would  not  listen  to  us;  he  would  ieel 
it  such  a  disgrace,  his  son  wanting  to  marry  a  dress- 
maker. She  made  me  unhappy,  too,  when  she  put 
it  all  before  me  in  that  way,"  and  here  Nan's  face 
paled  perceptibly  in  the  moonlight;  "for  she  made 
me  see  how  hard  it  is  on  him,  and  on  your  mother, 
too!  Oh,  Dick,  don't  you  think  you  ought  to  listen  to 
them,  and  not  have  anything  more  to  do  with  me?" 

"Nan,  I  am  shocked  at  you!" 
,  "But,  Dick!" 

"I  tell  you  I  am  utterly  shocked!  You  to  say 
such  a  thing  to  my  face,  when  we  have  been  as  good 
as  engaged  to  each  other  all  our  lives!  Who  cares 
for  the  trumpery  dressmaking?  Not  1!" 

"But  your  father!'*  persisted  Nan,  but  very 
faintly,  for  Dick's  eyes  were  blazing  with  anger. 

"Not  another  word!  Nan,  how  dare  you — after 
what  you  have  promised  this  morning!  Have  I  not 
been  worried  and  badgered  enough,  without  your 
turning  on  me  in  this  way?  If  you  won't  marry 
me,  you  won't;  but  I  shall  be  a  bachelor  all  my  life 
for  your  sake!"  and  Dick,  who  was  so  sore,  poor 
fellow,  that  he  was  ready  to  quarrel  with  her  out  of 
the  very  fullness  of  his  love,  actually  made  a  move- 
ment as  though  to  leave  her,  only  Nan  caught  him 
by  the  arm  in  quite  a  frightened  way. 

"Dick!  dear  Dick!" 

"Well?"  rather  sullenly. 

"Oh,  don't  leave  me  like  this!  It  would  break 
my  heart !  1  did  not  mean  to  make  you  angry.  I 
was  only  pleading  with  you  for  your  own  good.  Of 
course  I  will  keep  my  promise.  Have  I  not  been 
true  to  you  all  my  life?  Oh,  Dick!  how  can  you 
turn  from  me  like  this?"  And  Nan  actually  began 
to  sob  in  earnest,  only  Dick's  sweet  temper  returned 
in  a  moment  at  the  sight  of  her  distress,  and  he  fell 
to  comforting  her  with  all  his  might;  and  after  this 
things  went  on  more  smoothly. 


344  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

He  told  her  about  his  conversation  with  his 
father,  and  how  he  had  planned  a  city  life  for  him- 
self; but  here  Nan  timidly  interposed: 

44  Would  that  not  be  a  pity,  when  you  had  always 
meant  to  study  for  the  bar?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  was  the  confident  answer. 
44 That  was  my  father's  wish,  not  mine.  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  in  confidence  that  I  am  not  at  all 
a  shining  light.  I  am  afraid  I  am  rather  a  duffer, 
and  shall  not  make  my  mark  in  the  world.  I  have 
always  thought  desk-work  must  be  rather  a  bore ; 
but,  after  all,  with  a  good  introduction  and  a  toler- 
able berth,  one  is  pretty  sure  of  getting  on  in  the 
city.  What  I  want  is  to  make  a  pretty  cozy  little 
nest  for  somebody,  and  as  quick  as  possible — eh, 
Nan?'* 

441  do  not  mind  waiting,"  faltered  Nan.  But  she 
felt  at  this  moment  that  no  lover  could  have  been 
so  absolutely  perfect  as  her  Dick. 

"Oh,  that  is  what  girls  always  say,"  returned 
Dick,  rather  loftily,  "They  are  never  in  a  hurry. 
They  would  wait  seven — ten  years — half  a  lifetime. 
But  with  us  men  it  is  different.  1  am  not  a  bit 
afraid  of  you.  I  know  you  will  stick  to  me  like  a 
brick,  and  all  that;  and  father  will  come  round  when 
he  sees  we  are  in  earnest.  But  all  the  same  I  want 
to  have  you  to  myself  as  soon  as  possible.  A  fellow 
likes  the  feeling  of  working  for  his  wife.  1  hate  to 
think  of  these  pretty  fingers  stitching  away  for  other 
people.  I  want  them  to  work  for  me:  do  you 
understand,  Nan?"  And  Nan,  of  course,  understood. 

Dick,  poor  fellow,  had  not  much  time  for  his 
love-making,  he  and  Nan  had  too  much  business  to 
settle.  Nan  had  to  explain  to  him  that  her  mother 
was  of  opinion  that,  under  the  present  circum- 
stances, nothing  ought  to  be  done  to  excite  Mr. 
Mayne's  wrath.  Dick  might  write  to  her  mother 
sometimes,  just  to  let  them  know  how  he  was  get- 
ting on,  but  between  the  young  people  themselves 
there  must  be  no  correspondence. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  345 

"Mother  says  it  will  not  be  honorable,  and  that 
»we  are  not  properly  engaged."  And,  though  Dick 
combated  this  rather  stoutly,  he  gave  in  at  last, 
and  agreed  that,  until  the  new  year,  he  would  not 
claim  his  rights,  or  infringe  the  sacred  privacy  of 
the  Friary. 

"Arid  now  I  must  go,"  said  Dick,  with  a  great 
sigh;  "and  it  is  good-by  for  months.  Now,  I  do 
not  mean  to  ask  your  leave — for  you  are  such  a  girl 
for  scruples,  and  all  that,  and  you  might  take  it  into 
your  head  to  refuse  me — so  there!" 

Dick's  words  were  mysterious;  but  he  very  soon 
made  his  meaning  plain. 

Nan  said,  "Oh,  Dick!"  but  made  no  further  pro- 
test. After  all,  whatever  Mr.  Mayne  and  her 
mother  said,  they  were  engaged. 

As  Dick  closed  the  little  gate  behind  him,  he  was 
aware  of  a  tall  figtire  looming  in  the  darkness. 

"Confound  that  parson!  What  does  he  mean  by 
loafing  about  here?"  he  thought,  feeling  something 
like  a  pugnacious  bull-dog  at  the  prospect  of  a  pos- 
sible rival.  "I  forgot  to  ask  Nan  about  him,  but  I 
dare  say  he  is  after  one  of  the  other  girls. "  But 
these  reflections  were  nipped  in  the  bud,  as  the 
short,  sturdy  form  of  Mr0  Mayne  was  dimly  visible 
in  the  road. 

Dick  chuckled  softly;  he  could  not  help  it. 

"All  right,  dear  old  boy,"  he  said  to  himself,  and 
then  he  stepped  up  briskly,  and  took  his  father's 
arm. 

"Do  you  call  this  honorable,  sir?"  began  Mr. 
Mayne,  in  a  most  irascible  voice. 

"I  call  it  very  neat,"  returned  Dick,  cheerfully. 
"My  dear  pater,  everything  is  fair  in  love  and  war; 
and  if  you  will  nap  at  unseasonable  times — but  that 
comes  of  early  rising,  as  I  have  often  told  you. " 

"Hold  your  tongue,  sir!"  was  the  violent  re- 
joinder. "It  is  a  mean  trick  you  have  served  me, 
and  you  know  it.  We  will  go  back  to-night;  noth- 
ing will  induce  me  to  sleep  in  this  place.  You  are 


346  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

not  to  be  trusted.  You  told  me  a  downright 
lie.  You  were  humbugging  me,  sir,  with  your 
naps." 

44 1  plead  guilty  to  a  fib,  if  you  like,"  was  Dick's 
careless  answer.  "What  a  fuss  you  are  making, 
father!  Did  you  never  tell  one  in  your  life?  Now, 
what  is  the  use  of  putting  yourself  out?  it  is  not 
good  at  your  age,  sir.  What  would  my  mother 
say?  It  might  bring  on  apoplexy,  after  that  port 
wine." 

"Confound  your  impertinence!"  rejoined  Mr. 
Mayne,  angrily;  but  Dick  patted  his  coat-sleeve 
pleasantly. 

44 There,  that  will  do.  I  think  you  have  relieved 
your  feelings  sufficiently.  Now  we  will  go  to  busi- 
ness. I  have  seen  Nan,  and  told  her  all  about  it, 
and  she  has  had  it  out  with  her  mother.  Mrs. 
Challoner  will  not  hear  of  our  writing  to  each 
other;  and  I  am  not  to  show  my  face  at  the  Friary 
without  your  permission.  There  is  no  fibbing  or 
want  of  honor  there;  Nan  is  not  the  girl  to  encour- 
age a  fellow  to  take  liberties," 

44 Oh,  indeed!"  sneered  Mr.  Mayne;  but  he  list- 
ened attentively  for  all  that.  And  his  gloomy 
eyebrows  relaxed  in  the  darkness.  The  girl  was 
not  behaving  so  badly,  after  all. 

*4So  we  said  good-bye,"  continued  Dick,  keeping 
the  latter  part  of  the  interview  to  himself;  "and  in 
October  I  shall  go  back  for  the  term,  as  I  promised. 
We  can  settle  about  the  other  things  after  Christ- 
mas." 

"Oh,  yes,  we  can  talk  about  that  by  and  by," 
replied  the  father,  hastily;  and  then  he  waxed 
cheerful  all  at  once,  and  called  his  son's  attention 
to  some  new  houses  they  were  building.  44After 
all,  Hadleigh  is  not  such  a  bad  little  place, "  he 
observed,  "and  they  gave  us  a  very  good  dinner  at 
the  hotel.  It  is  not  every  one  who  can  cook  fish 
like  that."  And  then  Dick  knew  that  the  storm 
had  blown  over  for  the  present,  and  that  his  father 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  347 

intended  to  make  himself  pleasant  and  ignore  all 
troublesome  topics. 

Dick  was  a  little  tired  when  he  went  to  bed,  but, 
on  the  whole,  he  was  not  unhappy.  Xt  was  quite 
true  that  the  idea  of  a  city  life  was  repugnant  to 
him,  but  the  thought  of  Nan  sweetened  even  that. 
Nothing  else  remained  to  him  if  his  father  chose  to 
be  disagreeable  and  withdraw  his  allowance,  or 
threaten  to  cut  him  off  with  a  shilling,  as  other  fel- 
lows' fathers  did  in  novels. 

"It  is  uncommonly  unpleasant,  having  to  wage 
war  with  one's  own  father,"  thought  Dick,  as  he 
laid  his  sandy  head  on  the  pillow.  "He  is  such  an 
old  trump,  too,  that  it  goes  against  the  grain.  But 
when  it  comes  to  his  wanting  to  choose  a  wife  for 
me,  it  is  too  much  of  a  good  thing;  it  is  tyranny  fit 
for  the  Middle  Ages.  Let  him  threaten  if  he  likes. 
He  will  find  1  shall  take  his  threats  in  earnest. 
After  Christmas  I  will  have  it  out  with  him  again; 
and  if  he  will  not  listen  to  reason,  I  will  go  up  to 
Mr  James  Stanfield  myself,  and  then  he  will  see 
that  I  mean  what  I  say.  Heigho!  I  am  not  such 
a  lucky  fellow  as  Hamilton  aways  thinks  me."  And 
at  this  juncture  of  his  sad  cogitations,  Dick  forgot 
all  about  it,  and  fell  asleep. 

Yes,  Dick  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just.  It  was  Mr. 
Drummond  who  was  wakeful  and  uneasy  that 
night.  A  vague  sense  of  something  wrong  tor- 
mented him  waking  and  sleeping. 

Who  was  that  sandy-headed  young  fellow  who 
had  been  twice  to  the  Friary  that  day?  What  busi- 
ness had  he  to  be  shutting  the  gate  after  him  in  that 
free-and-easy  way  at  ten  o'clock  at  night!  He  must 
find  it  out  somehow;  he  must  make  an  excuse  for 
calling  there,  and  put  the  question  as  indifferently 
as  he  could;  but  even  when  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
pursue  this  course,  Archie  felt  just  as  restless  as 
ever. 

He  made  his  way  to  the  cottage  as  early  as  possi- 
ble. Phillis,  who  was  alone  in  the  work-room, 


348  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

colored  a  little  as  she  saw  him  coming  in  at  the 
gate.  He  came  so  often,  he  was  so  kind,  so  atten- 
tive to  them  all,  and  yet  she  had  a  dim  doubt  in  her 
mind  that  troubled  her  at  times.  Was  it  for  Nan's 
sake  that  he  came?  Could  she  speak  and  undeceive 
him  before  things  went  too  far  with  him?  Yes, 
when  the  opportunity  offered,  she  thought  she  could 
speak,  even  though  the  speaking  would  be  painful 
to  her. 

Mr.  Drummond  looked  round  the  room  with  a  dis^ 
appointed  air  as  he  entered,  and  then  he  came  up 
to  Phillis. 

"You  are  alone?"  he  said,  with  a  regretful  accent 
in  his  voice;  at  least  Phillis  fancied  she  detected  it. 
"How  is  that?  Are  your  sisters  out,  or  busy?" 

"Oh,  we  are  always  busy,"  returned  Phillis, 
lightly;  but,  curiously  enough,  she  felt  a  little  sore 
at  his  tone.  "Nan  has  gone  down  to  Albert  Terrace 
to  take  a  fresh  order,  and  Dulce  is  in  the  town 
somewhere  with  mother.  Don't  you  mean  to  sit 
down,  Mr.  Drummond?  or  is  your  business  with 
mother?  She  will  not  be  back  just  yet,  but  I  could 
give  her  any  message."  Phillis  said  this  as  she 
stitched  away  with  energy,  but  one  quick  glance 
had  shown  her  that  Mr.  Drummoi.d  was  looking 
irresolute  and  ill  at  ease  as  he  stood  beside  her. 

"Thank  you,  but  I  must  not  stay  and  hinder  you. 
Yes,  my  business  was  with  your  mother;  but  it  is 
of  no  consequence,  and  I  can  call  again."  Never- 
theless, he  sat  down  and  deposited  his  felt  hat  awk- 
wardly enough  on  the  table.  He  liked  Phillis,  but 
he  was  a  little  afraid  of  her;  she  was  shrewd,  and 
seemed  to  have  the  knack  of  reading  one's  thoughts. 
He  was  wondering  how  he  should  bring  his  question 
on  the  tapis*  but  Phillis,  by  some  marvelous  intui- 
tion that  really  surprised  her,  had  already  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  this  visit  meant  something.  He 
had  seen  Dick;  perhaps  he  wanted  to  find  out  all 
about  him.  Certainly  he  was  not  quite  himself  to- 
day. Yes,  that  must  be  what  he  wanted,  Pkillis's 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  349 

kind  heart  and  mother-wit  were  always  ready  for 
an  emergency. 

"How  full  Hadleigh  is  getting!"  she  remarked, 
pleasantly,  as  she  adjusted  the  trimming  of  a  sleeve. 
44 Do  you  know,  some  old  neighbors  of  ours  from 
Oldfield  turned  up  unexpectedly  yesterday?  They 
are  going  away  to-day,  though/'  she  added,  with  a 
little  regret  in  her  voice. 

Archie  brightened  up  visibly  at  this- 

"Oh,  indeed!"  he  observed,  with  alacrity.  "Not 
a  very  long  visit.  Perhaps  they  came  down  pur- 
posely to  see  you?" 

uYes,  of  course,"  returned  Phillis,  confusedly. 
"They  had  intended  staying  some  days  at  the  hotel, 
but  Mr.  Mayne  suddenly  changed  his  mind,  much 
to  our  and  Dick's  disappointment;  but  it  could  not 
be  helped." 

"Dick,"  echoed  Archie,  a  little  surprised  at  this 
familiarity;  and  then  he  added,  somewhat  awk- 
wardly, "I  think  1  saw  the  young  man  and  his 
father  at  the  library  yesterday,  and  last  night  as  I 
was  coming  from  the  station,  I  encountered  him 
again  at  your  gate." 

"Yes,  that  was  Dick,"  answered  Phillis,  stooping 
a  little  over  her  work.  "He  is  not  handsome,  poor 
fellow!  but  he  is  as  nice  as  possible.  They  live  at 
Longmead;  that  is  next  door  to  our  dear  old  Glen 
Cottage,  and  the  gardens  adjoin.  We  call  him  Dick 
because  we  have  known  him  all  our  lives,  and  he 
has  been  a  sort  of  brother  to  us: " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see,"  drawled  Archie,  slowly.  "That 
sort  of  thing  is  very  nice  when  you  have  not  a  man 
belonging  to  you.  It  is  a  little  awkward  sometimes, 
for  people  do  not  always  see  this  sort  of  relation- 
ship. He  seemed  a  nice  sort  of  fellow,  T  should 
say,"  he  continued,  in  his  patronizing  way,  strok- 
ing his  beard  complacently.  After  all,  the  sandy- 
headed  youth  was  no  possible  rival. 

"Oh,  Dick  is  ever  so  nice,"  answered  Phillis, 
enthusiastically;  "not  good  enough  for — "  and  then 


360  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

she  stopped  and  broke  her  thread.  "I  am  glad  we 
are  so  fond  of  him,"  she  continued,  rather  hurri- 
edly, "because  Dick  is  to  be  our  real  brother  some 
day.  He  and  Nan  have  cared  for  each  other  all 
their  lives,  and,  though  Mr.  Mayne  is  dreadfully 
angry  about  it,  they  consider  themselves  as  good  as 
engaged,  and  mean  to  liVv  down  his  opposition. 
They  came  to  an  understanding  yesterday,"  finished 
Phillis,  who  was  determined  to  bring  it  all  out. 

"Oh,  indeed!"  returned  Archie,  "that  must  be  a 
great  relief,  I  am  sure.  There  is  your  little  dog 
whining  at  the  door;  may  I  let  him  in?"  And, 
without  waiting  for  an  answer,  Archie  had  darted 
out  in  pursuit  of  Laddie,  but  not  before  Phillis's 
swift  upward  glance  had  shown  her  a  face  that  had 
grown  perceptibly  paler  in  the  last  few  minutes. 

"Oh,  poor  fellow!  I  was  right!"  thought  Phillis, 
and  the  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes.  "It  was  best  to 
speak.  I  see  that  now;  and  he  will  get  over  it  if  he 
thinks  no  one  knows  it.  How  I  wish  I  could  help 
him!  but  it  will  never  do  to  show  the  least  sympa- 
thy, I  have  no  right."  And  here  Phillis  sighed, 
and  her  gray  eyes  grew  dark  with  pain  for  a 
moment.  Archie  was  rather  a  long  time  absent ; 
and  then  he  came  back  with  Laddie  in  his  arms, 
and  stood  by  the  window. 

**Your  news  has  interested  me  very  much,"  he 
said,  and  his  voice  was  quite  steady.  "I  suppose, 
as  this — this  engagement  is  not  public,  I  had  better 
not  wish  your  sister  joy,  unless  you  do  it  for  me." 

"Oh,  no;  there  is  no  need  of  that,"  returned 
Phillis,  in  a  low  voice.  "Mother  might  not  like  my 
mentioning  it;  but  I  thought  you  might  wonder 
about  Dick,  and — "  here  Phillis  got  confused. 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Archie,  quietly;  but  now 
he  looked  at  her.  "You  are  very  kind.  Yes,  it 
was  best  for  me  to  know."  And  then,  as  Phillis 
rose  and  gave  him  her  hand,  for  he  had  taken  up 
his  hat  as  he  spoke,  she  read  at  once  that  her  cau- 
tion had  been  in  vain — that  he  had  full  understand- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  351 

ing  why  the  news  had  been  told  to  him,  ana  to  him 
only,and  that  he  was  grateful  to  her  for  so  telling  him. 

Poor  Phillis!  she  had  accomplished  her  task;  and 
yet,  as  the  door  closed  behind  the  young  clergy- 
man, two  or  three  tears  fell  on  her  work.  He  was 
not  angry  with  her;  on  the  contrary,  he  had  thanked 
her,  and  the  grasp  of  his  hand  had  been  as  cordial  as 
ever.  But,  in  spite  of  the  steadiness  of  his  voice 
and  look,  the  arrow  had  pierced  between  the 
joints  of  his  armor.  He  might  not  be  fatally 
wounded — that  was  not  in  the  girl's  power  to  know; 
but  that  he  was  in  some  way  hurt — made  miserable 
with  a  man's  misery — of  this  she  was  acutely  sensi- 
ble; and  the  strongest  longing  to  comfort  him — to 
tell  him  how  much  she  admired  his  fortitude — came 
over  her,  with  a  strong,  stinging  pain  that  surprised 
her. 

Archie  had  the  longest  walk  that  day  that  he  had 
ever  had  in  his  life.  He  came  in  quite  fagged  and 
foot-sore  to  his  dinner,  and  far  too  tired  to  eat. 
Mattie  told  him  he  looked  ill  and  worn  out;  but, 
though  he  generally  resented  any  such  personal 
remarks,  he  merely  told  her  very  gently  that  he  was 
tired,  and  that  he  would  like  a  cup  of  coffee  in  his 
study,  and  not  to  be  disturbed.  And  when  she  took 
in  the  coffee  presently,  she  found  him  buried  in  the 
depths  of  his  easy-chair,  and  evidently  half  asleep, 
and  stole  out  of  the  room  on  tiptoe. 

But  his  eyes  opened  very  speedily  as  soon  as  the 
door  closed  upon  her.  It  was  not  sleep  he  wanted, 
but  some  moral  strength  to  bear  a  pain  that  threat- 
ened to  be  unendurable.  How  had  that  girl  read  his 
secret?  Surely  he  had  not  betrayed  himself!  Nan 
had  not  discovered  it,  for  her  calmness  and  sweet 
unconsciousness  had  never  varied  in  his  presence. 
Never  for  an  instant  had  her  changing  color  testi- 
fied to  the  faintest  uneasiness.  He  understood  the 
reason  of  her  reserve  now.  Her  thoughts  had  been 
with  this  Dick,  and  here  Archie  groaned  and  hid 
his  face. 


352  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Not  mortally  hurt,  perhaps;  but  still  the  pain  and 
the  sense  of  loss  were  very  bitter  to  this  young 
man,  who  had  felt  for  weeks  past  that  his  life  was 
permeated  by  the  sweetness  and  graciousness  of 
Nan's  presence.  How  lovely  she  had  seemed  to  him 
—the  ideal  girl  of  his  dreams!  It  was  love  at  first 
sight.  He  knew  that  now.  His  man's  heart  had 
been  set  on  the  hope  of  winning  her,  and  now  she 
was  lost  to  him. 

Never  for  one  moment  had  she  belonged  to  him, 
or  could  belong  to  him.  "He  and  Nan  had  cared 
for  each  other  all  their  lives" — that  was  what  her 
sister  had  told  him;  and  what  remained  but  for  him 
to  stamp  out  this  craze  and  fever  before  it  mastered 
him  and  robbed  him  of  his  peace? 

"I  am  not  the  only  man  who  has  had  to  suffer," 
thought  Archie,  as  hours  after  he  stumbled  up  to 
bed  in  the  darkness. 

"At  least,  it  makes  it  easier  to  know  that  no  one 
shares  my  pain.  These  things  are  better  battled 
out  alone.  I  could  not  bear  even  Grace's  sympathy 
in  this."  And  yet  as  Archie  said  this  to  himself, 
he  recalled  without  any  bitterness  the  half-tender, 
half-pitying  look  in  Phillis's  eyes.  "She  was  sorry 
for  me.  She  saw  it  all ;  and  it  was  kind  of  her  to 
tell  me,"  thought  the  young  man. 

He  had  no  idea  that  Phillis  was  at  that  moment 
whispering  little  wistful  prayers  in  the  darkness 
that  he  might  soon  be  comforted. 

Who  knows  how  many  such  prayers  are  flung  out 
into  the  deep  of  God's  mercy — comfort  for  such  a 
one  whom  we  would  fain  comfort  ourselves;  feeble 
utterances  and  cries  of  pity;  the  stretching  out  of 
helpless  hands,  which  nevertheless  may  bring  down 
blessings?  But  so  it  shall  be  while  men  and  women 
struggle  and  fall,  and  weep  the  tears  common  to 
humanity,  "until  all  eyes  are  dried  in  the  clear 
light  of  eternity,  and  the  sorest  heart  shall  then 
own  the  wisdom  of  the  cross  that  had  been  laid 
upon  them." 


NOT  LIKE  OTHFR  GIRLS.  353 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


Phillis  found  it  difficult  during  the  next  few  days 
to  reconcile  divided  sympathies;  a  nice  adjustment 
of  conflicting  feelings  seemed  almost  impossible. 
Nan  was  so  simply,  so  transparently  happy,  that  no 
sister  worthy  of  the  name  could  refuse  to  rejoice 
with  her;  a  creature  so  brimming  over  with  glad- 
ness, with  contented  love,  was  certain  to  reflect 
heart-sunshine.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was  Mr. 
Diummond!  To  be  glad  and  sorry  in  a  breath  was 
provoking  to  a  feeling  woman,  as  the  traveler's 
blowing  hot  and  cold  was  to  the  satyr  in  the  fable. 

In  trying  to  preserve  an  even  balance  Phillis  be- 
came  decidedly  cross.  She  was  one  who  liked  a 
clear  temperature — neither  torrid  nor  frigid.  Too 
much  susceptibility  gave  her  an  east-windy  feeling; 
to  be  always  at  the  fever-point  of  sympathy  with 
one's  fellow-creatures  would  not  have  suited  her  at 
all. 

Nan,  who  possessed  more  sweetness  of  temper 
than  keenness  of  psychological  insight,  could  not 
understand  what  had  come  to  Phillis.  She  was 
absent,  a  trifle  sad,  and  yet  full  of  retort.  At  times 
she  seemed  to  brim  over  with  a  wordy  wisdom  that 
made  no  sort  of  impression. 

One  evening,  as  they  were  retiring  to  bed,  Nan 
beckoned  her  into  her  little  room  and  shut  the 
door.  Then  she  placed  a  seat  invitingly  by  the 
open  window,  which  was  pleasantly  framed  by  jas- 
mine; and  then  she  took  hold  of  Phillis'  shoulders 
in  a  persuasive  manner. 

"Now,  dear,"  she  said,  coaxingly,  "you  shall 
just  tell  me  all  about  it." 

Phillis  looked  up,  a  little  startled.  Then,  as  she 
met  Nan's  gentle,  penetrative  g3^nce,  she  pre- 
28  Girls. 


354  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

sented  a  sudden  blank  of  non-comprehension,  most 
telling  on  such  occasions,  and  yawned  slightly. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Nannie?"  in  a  somewhat 
bored  tone. 

44 Come,  dear,  tell  me,"  continued  Nan,  with 
cheerful  pertinacity.  "You  are  never  dull  or  touchy 
without  some  good  reason.  What  has  been  the  mat- 
ter the  last  few  days?  Are  you  vexed  or  disap- 
pointed about  anything?  Are  you  sure — quite  sure 
you  are  pleased  about  Dick?"  the  idea  occurring  to 
her  suddenly  that  Phillis  might  not  approve  of  their 
imprudent  engagement. 

"Oh,  Nannie,  how  absurd  you  are!"  returned 
Phillis,  pettishly.  "Have  I  not  told  you  a  dozen 
times  since  Wednesday  how  delighted  I  am  that  you 
have  come  to  an  understanding?  Have  I  not 
sounded  his  praises  until  I  was  hoarse?  Why,  if  I 
had  been  in  love  with  Dick  myself  I  could  not  have 
talked  about  him  more." 

"Yes,  I  know  you  have  been  very  good,  dear; 
but,  still,  I  felt  there  was  something." 

"Oh,  dear,  no!"  returned  Phillis,  decidedly,  and 
her  voice  was  a  little  hard.  "  The  fact  is,  that  you  are 
in  the  seventh  heaven  yourself,  and  you  expect  us 
to  be  there  too.  Not  that  I  wonder  at  you,  Nannie, 
because  Dick — dear  old  fellow — is  ever  so  nice.  " 

She  threw  in  this  last  clause  not  without  inten- 
tion, and,  of  course,  the  tempting  bait  took  at  once. 

"I  never  knew  any  one  half  so  good,"  replied 
Nan,  in  a  calmly  satisfied  tone.  "You  have  hinted 
once  or  twice,  Phil,  that  you  thought  him  rather 
too  young — that  our  being  the  same  age  was  a  pity; 
but — do  you  know? — in  Dick's  case  it  does  not 
matter  in  the  least.  No  man  double  his  age  could 
have  made  his  meaning  more  plain,  or  have  spoken 
better  to  the  purpose.  He  is  so  strong  and  self- 
reliant  and  manly;  and,  with  all  his  fun,  he  is  so 
unselfish." 

"He  will  make  you  a  very  good  husband,  Nan;  I 
am  sure  of  that." 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  356 

"I  think  he  will,"  returned  Nan,  with  a  far-away 
look  in  her  eyes.  She  was  recalling  Dick's  speech 
about  the  nest  that  he  wanted  to  make  cozy  for 
some  one.  "Phil,  dear,"  she  went  on,  after  this 
blissful  pause,  "I  wish  you  had  a  Dick  too." 

44 Good  gracious,  Nannie!" 

44I  mean — you  know  what  I  mean — some  one  to 
whom  you  are  first,  and  who  has  a  right  to  care  for 
you;  it  gives  such  a  meaning  to  one's  life.  Of 
course  it  will  come  in  time ;  no  one  can  look  at  you 
and  not  prophecy  a  happy  future :  it  is  only  I  who 
am  impatient  and  want  it  to  come  soon/' 

Phillis  wrinkled  her  brows  thoughtfully  over  this 
speech;  she  seemed  inclined  to  digest  and  assim- 
ilate it. 

44 1  dare  say  you  are  right,"  she  replied,  after  a 
pause.  "Yes,  it  would  be  nice,  no  doubt." 

4 'When  the  real  he  comes,  you  will  find  how  nice 
it  is,"  rejoined  Nan,  with  sympathetic  readiness. 
"Do  you  know,  Phil,  the  idea  has  once  or  twice 
occurred  to  me  that  Mr.  Drummond  comes  rather 
often?"  But  here  Phillis  shook  off  her  hand  and 
started  from  her  chair. 

4 'There  is  a  moth  singeing  its  wings.  Poor  wee 
beastie!  let  me  save  it,  if  it  be  not  too  late."  And 
she  chased  the  insect  most  patiently  until  the  blue- 
gray  wings  fluttered  into  her  hand. 

''There,  I  have  saved  him  from  utter  destruc- 
tion!" she  cried,  triumphantly,  leaning  out  into  the 
darkness.  '44He  has  scorched  himself,  that  is  all;" 
then,  as  she  walked  back  to  her  sister,  her  head  was 
erect,  and  there  was  a  beautiful,  earnest  look  upon 
her  face. 

"Nannie,  I  don't  want  to  find  fault  with  you,  but 
don't  you  remember  how  we  used  to  pride  our- 
selves, in  the  dear  old  days,  in  not  being  like  other 
girls — the  Paines,  for  example,  or  even  Adelaide 
Satoris,  who  used  to  gossip  so  much  about  young 
men." 


356  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Nan  opened  her  eyes  widely  at  this,  but  made  no 
answer. 

44  We  must  not  be  different  now,  because  our  life 
is  narrower,  and  more  monotonous.  I  know,  talk- 
ing so  much  over  our  work,  we  have  terrible  temp- 
tations to  gossip;  but  I  can't  bear  to  think  that  we 
should  ever  lower  our  standard,  ever  degenerat 
into  the  feeble  girlishness  we  abhor.  We  never 
used  to  talk  about  young  men,  Nan,  except  Dick, 
and  that  did  not  matter  Of  course  we  liked  them 
in  their  places,  and  had  plenty  of  fun,  and  tor- 
mented them  a  little;  but  you  never  made  such  a 
speech  as  that  at  Glen  Cottage." 

"Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  What  have  I  done?"  ex- 
claimed Nan,  much  distressed  at  this  rebuke.  "I 
do  think  you  are  right,  Phil;  and  it  was  naughty 
o;  me  to  put  such  a  thing  into  your  head." 

"You  have  put  no  idea  into  my  hand,"  replied 
Phillis,  with  crisp  obstinacy.  "There!  I  am  only 
moralizing  for  my  own  good,  as  well  as  yours. 
Small  beginnings  make  great  endings.  If  we  once 
begin  to  gossip,  we  might  end  by  flirting;  and, 
Nan,  if  you  knew  how  I  hate  that  sort  of  thing!" 
And  Phillis  looked  grand  and  scornful. 

"Yes,  dear;  and  I  know  you  are  right,"  returned 
Nan,  humbly.  She  was  not  quite  sure  what  she 
had  done  to  provoke  this  outburst  of  high  moral 
feeling,  but  she  felt  that  Phillis  was  dreadfully  in 
earnest.  They  kissed  each  other  rather  solemnly 
after  that,  and  Phillis  was  suffered  to  depart  in 
silence. 

That  night  there  was  no  wistful  little  prayer  that 
Mr.  Drummond  might  be  comforted:  Phillis  had 
too  many  petitions  to  offer  up  on  her  own  account. 
She  was  accusing  herself  of  pride,  and  Pharisaism, 
and  hypocrisy,  in  no  measured  terms.  "Not  like 
other  girls!  I  am  worse — worse,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. And  then,  among  other  things,  she  asked  for 
the  gift  of  content — for  a  quiet,  satisfied  spirit,  not 
craving  or  imbittered — strength  to  bear  her  own 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  357 

and  her  friends'  troubles,  and  far -looking  faith  to 
discern  "God's  perfectness  round  our  uncomplete- 
ness — round  our  restlessness  His  rest." 

The  following  evening,  as  Phillis  was  sorting  out 
patterns  in  the  work-room,  a  note  was  brought  to 
her  from  the  White  House.  It  was  in  Mrs. 
Cheyne's  handwriting,  and,  like  herself,  strangely 
abrupt 

"Your  visits  are  like  angels'  visits — extremely 
rare,"  it  began.  44I  am  afraid  I  have  frightened 
you  away,  as  1  have  frightened  the  parson.  I 
thought  you  had  more  wit  than  he  to  discern  be- 
tween mannerism  and  downright  ill  humor.  This 
evening  the  temperature  is  equable — not  the  sign 
of  a  brooding  cloud;  so  put  on  your  hat,  like  a  good 
girl,  and  come  over.  Miss  Mewlstone  and  I  will  be 
prepared  to  welcome  you." 

44 You  had  better  go,"  observed  Nan,  who  had 
read  the  note  over  her  sister's  shoulder:  4<you  have 
worked  so  dreadfully  hard  all  day,  and  it  will  be  a 
little  change." 

44 No  one  cares  for  east  winds  as  a  change,"  re- 
plied Phillis,  dryly;  nevertheless,  she  made  up  her 
mind  that  she  would  go.  She  was  beginning  to 
dread  being  summoned  to  the  White  House;  she 
felt  that  Airs.  Cheyne  alternately  fascinated  and 
repelled  her.  She  was  growing  fond  of  Miss  Mewl- 
stone; but  then,  on  these  occasions,  she  had  so  little 
intercourse  with  her.  The  charitable  instinct  that 
was  always  ready  to  be  kindled  in  Phillis's  nature 
prompted  her  to  pay  these  visits;  and  yet  she 
always  went  reluctantly. 

She  had  two  encounters  on  the  road,  both  of 
which  she  had  foreseen  with  nice  presentiment. 

The  first  was  with  Mr.  Drummond. 

He  was  walking  along  slowly,  with  his  eyes  on 
the  ground.  A  sort  of  flush  came  to  his  face  when 
he  saw  Phillis;  and  then  he  stopped  and  shook 
hands,  and  asked  after  them  all  comprehensively, 
yet  with  constraint  in  his  voice.  Phillis  told  him 


358  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

rather  hurriedly  that  she  was  going  to  the  White 
House:  Mrs.  Cheyne  had  sent  for  her. 

Archie  smiled: 

44 1  am  glad  she  does  not  send  for  me.  I  have 
not  been  there  for  a  long  time.  Sarcasm  is  not  an 
attractive  form  of  welcome.  It  slams  the  door  in 
a  man's  face.  I  hope  you  will  not  get  some  hard 
hits,  Miss  Challoner. "  And  then  he  went  on  his 
way. 

As  she  approached  Mrs.  Williams's  cottage,  Mr. 
Dancy  was,  as  usual,  leaning  against  the  little 
gate.  He  stepped  out  in  the  road  and  accosted 
her. 

44 1  have  not  called  on  your  mother,"  he  began 
rather  abruptly.  k4After  all,  I  thought  it  best  not 
to  trouble  her  just  now.  Can  you  spare  me  a  few 
minutes?  or  are  you  going  in  there?"  looking  toward 
the  White  House. 

<4I  am  rather  in  a  hurry,"  returned  Phillis,  sur- 
prised at  his  manner,  it  seemed  so  agitated.  *4I  am 
already  late,  and  Mrs.  Cheyne  will  be  expecting 
me." 

<4Very  well,  another  time,"  he  replied,  stepping 
back  without  further  ceremony;  but  until  Phillis's 
figure  disappeared  in  the  trees  he  watched  her, 
leaning  still  upon  the  little  gate. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  received  her  with  a  frosty  smile; 
but,  on  the  whole,  her  manner  was  more  gracious 
than  usual,  and  by  and  by  it  thawed  completely. 

She  was  a  little  captious  at  first,  it  was  true,  and 
she  snubbed  poor  Miss  Mewlstone  decidedly  once  or 
twice — but  then  Miss  Mewlstone  was  used  to  being 
snubbed — but  with  Phillis  she  was  sparing  of  sar- 
casm. After  a  time  she  began  to  look  kindly  at  the 
girl;  then  she  bade  her  talk,  rather  peremptorily, 
because  she  liked  her  voice,  and  found  it  pleasant 
to  listen  to  her;  and  by  and  by  Phillis  grew  more 
at  her  ease,  and  her  girlish  talk  rippled  on  as 
smoothly  as  possible. 

Mrs.  Cheyne's  face  softened  and  grew  strangely 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  359 

handsome  as  she  listened:  she  was  drawing  Phillis 
out — leading  her  to  speak  of  the  old  life,  and  of  all 
their  youthful  source  of  happiness.  Then  she  fell 
into  a  retrospect  of  her  own  young  days,  when  she 
was  a  spoiled  madcap  girl  and  had  all  sorts  of  daring 
adventures. 

Phillis  was  quite  fascinated ;  she  was  even  disap- 
pointed when  Miss  Mewlstone  pointed  out  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour. 

"I  have  enjoyed  myself  so  much,"  she  said,  as 
she  put  on  her  hat 

"I  meant  you  to  enjoy  yourself,"  returned  Mrs. 
Cheyne,  quietly,  as  she  drew  the  girl's  face  down 
to  hers.  "I  have  given  you  such  a  bad  impression 
that  you  look  on  me  as  a  sort  ot  moral  bugbear.  I 
can  be  very  different,  when  I  like,  and  I  have  liked 
to  be  agreeable  to-night."  And  then  this  strange 
woman  took  up  a  rich  cashmere  shawl  from  the 
couch  where  she  was  lying,  and  folded  it  round 
Phillis's  shoulders.  **The  evenings  are  chilly. 
Jeffrys  can  bring  this  back  with  her;"  for  Mrs. 
Cheyne  had  already  decided  that  this  time  her 
maid  should  accompany  Phillis  to  the  cottage. 

Phillis  laughed  in  an  amused  fashion  as  she  saw 
the  reflection  of  herself  in  one  of  the  mirrors:  her 
figure  looked  quite  queenly  enveloped  in  the  real 
drapery.  "She  has  forgotten  all  about  the  dress- 
making," she  thought  to  herself  as  she  tripped 
down-stairs. 

It  was  a  lovely  moonlight  evening ;  the  avenue  was 
white  and  glistening  in  the  soft  light;  the  trees 
cast  weird  shadows  on  the  grass.  Phillis  was  some- 
what surprised  to  see  in  the  distance  Mr.  Dancy's 
tall  figure  pacing  to  and  fro  before  the  lodge  gate. 
He  was  evidently  waiting  for  her,  for  as  she  ap- 
proached he  threw  away  his  cigar  and  joined  her  at 
once.  Jeffreys,  who  thought  he  was  some  old 
acquaintance,  dropped  behind  very  discreetly,  after 
the  manner  of  waiting-women. 

"How  long   you   have   stayed  this   evening!     I 


360  NOT  LIKE  OTH2R  GIRLS. 

have  been  walking  tip  and  down  for  more  than  an 
hour,  watching  for  you,"  he  began,  with  curious 
abruptness. 

This  and  no  more  did  Jeffreys  hear  before  she 
lingered  out  of  ear-shot.  The  lady's-maid  thought 
she  perceived  an  interesting  situation,  and  being  of 
a  susceptible  and  sympathetic  temperament,  with 
a  blighted  attachment  of  her  own,  there  was  no  fear 
of  her  intruding.  Phillis  looked  around  once,  but 
Jeffreys  was  absorbed  in  her  contemplations  of  the 
clouds. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming,"  he  contin- 
ued; and  then  he  stopped  all  at  once,  and  caught 
hold  ot  the  fringe  of  the  shawl.  "This  is  not 
yours;  I  am  sure  I  have  seen  Magdalene  in  it. 
Pshaw!  what  am  I  saying?  the  force  of  old  habit.  I 
knew  her  once  as  Magdalene." 

44 It  is  dreadfully  heavy,  and,  after  all,  the  even- 
ing is  so  warm,  "returned  Phillis,  taking  no  notice 
of  this  incoherent  speech. 

44 Let  me  carry  it,"  he  rejoined,  with  singular 
eagerness;  4iit  is  absurd,  a  wrap  like  that  on  such 
a  night."  And,  while  Phillis  hesitated,  he  drew 
the  shawl  from  her  shoulders  and  hung  it  over  his 
arm,  and  all  the  way  his  disengaged  right  hand 
rested  on  the  folds,  touching  it  softly  from  time  to 
time,  as  though  the  mere  feeling  of  the  texture 
pleased  him. 

44 How  was  she  to-night?"  he  asked,  coming  a 
little  closer  to  Phillis,  and  dropping  his  voice  as  he 
spoke. 

44Who?  Mrs.  Cheyne?  Oh,  she  was  charming! 
just  a  little  cool  and  captious  at  first,  but  that  is  her 
way.  But  this  evening  she  was  bent  on  fascinat- 
ing me,  and  she  quite  succeeded;  she  looked  ill, 
though,  but  very,  very  beautiful." 

44 She  never  goes  out.  I  can  not  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her,"  he  returned,  hurriedly.  44Miss  Challoner, 
I  am  going  to  startle — shock  you,  perhaps;  but  I 
have  thought  about  it  until  my  head  is  dizzy,  and 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  361 

there  is  no  other  way.  Please  give  me  your  atten- 
tion a  moment,"  for  Phillis,  with  a  vague  sense  of 
uneasiness,  had  looked  around  for  Jeffreys.  "I 
must  see  you  alone;  I  must  speak  to  you  where  we 
shall  not  be  interrupted.  To  call  on  your  mother 
v/ill  be  no  good;  ycu,  and  only  you,  can  help  me. 
And  you  are  so  strong  and  merciful — I  can  read 
that  in  your  eyes — that  I  am  sure  of  your  sympathy, 
if  you  will  only  give  me  a  hearing." 

"Mr.  Dancy!  oh,  what  can  you  mean?"  exclaimed 
Phillis.  She  was  dreadfully  frightened  at  his 
•  earnestness,  but  her  voice  was  dignified,  and  she 
drew  herself  away  with  a  movement  full  of  pride 
and  hauteur.  "You  are  a  stranger  to  me:  you  have 
no  right — " 

"The  good  Samaritan  was  a  stranger,  too.  Have 
you  forgotten  that?"  he  returned,  in  a  voice  of 
grave  rebuke.  "Oh,  you  are  a  girl;  you  are  think- 
ing of  your  mother!  I  have  shocked  your  sense  of 
propriety,  my  child;  for  you  seem  a  child  to  me, 
who  have  lived  and  suffered  so  much.  Would  you 
hesitate  an  instant  if  some  poor  famishing  wretch 
were  to  ask  you  for  food  or  water?  Well,  I  am  that 
poor  wretch.  What  I  have  to  tell  you  is  a  matter 
of  life  and  death  to  me.  Only  a  woman — only  you 
— can  help  me;  and  you  shrink  because  we  have  not 
had  a  proper  introduction.  My  dear  young  lady, 
you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me.  I  am  unfortu- 
nate, but  a  gentleman — a  married  man,  if  that  will 
satisfy  your  scruples — " 

"But  my  mother,"  faltered  Phillis,  not  knowing 
what  to  say  to  this  unfortunate  stranger,  who  terri- 
fied and  yet  attracted  her  by  turns. 

Never  had  she  heard  a  human  voice  so  persuasive 
and  yet  so  agonized  in  its  intensity.  A  conviction 
of  the  truth  of  his  words  seized  upon  her  as  she 
listened — that  he  was  unhappy,  that  he  needed  her 
sympathy  for  some  purpose  of  his  own,  and  yet 
that  she  herself  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  purpose. 
But  what  would  Nan  say  if  she  consented — if  she 

24  Other  Girls 


362  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

acceded  to  such  an  extraordinary  proposition— to 
appoint  a  meeting  with  a  stranger? 

"It  is  life  and  death  to  me;  remember  that!" 
continued  Mr.  Dancy,  in  that  low,  suppressed  voice 
of  agitation.  "If  you  refuse  on  the  score  of  mere 
girlish  propriety,  you  will  regret  it.  I  am  sure  of 
that.  Trust  to  your  own  brave  heart,  and  let  it 
answer  for  you.  Will  you  refuse  this  trifling  act  of 
mercy — just  to  let  me  speak  to  you  alone,  and  tell 
you  my  story?  When  you  have  heard  that,  you  will 
take  things  into  your  own  hands." 

Phillis  hesitated,  and  grew  pale  with  anxiety;  but 
the  instincts  of  her  nature  were  stronger  than  her 
prudence.  From  the  first  she  had  believed  in  this 
man,  and  felt  interested  in  him  and  his  mysterious 
surroundings.  "One  may  be  deceived  in  a  face, 
but  never  in  a  voice,"  she  had  said,  in  her  pretty, 
dictatorial  way:  and  now  this  voice  was  winning 
her  over  to  his  side. 

"It  is  not  right,  but  what  can  I  do?  You  say  I 
can  help  you — "  And  then  she  paused.  "To- 
morrow morning  I  have  to  take  some  work  to  Rock 
Building.  I  shall  not  be  long  But  I  could  go  on 
the  beach  for  half  an  hour.  Nan  would  spare  me. 
I  might  hear  your  story  then." 

She  spoke  rapidly,  and  rather  ungraciously,  as 
though  she  were  dispensing  largess  to  a  troublesome 
mendicant;  but  Mr.  Dancy's  answer  was  humble 
in  its  intense  gratitude. 

"God  bless  you!  I  knew  your  kind  heart  was  to 
be  trusted.  There!  I  will  not  come  any  further. 
Good-night;  good-night.  A  thousand  thanks!" 
And,  before  Phillis  could  reply,  this  strange  being 
had  left  her  side,  arid  was  laying  the  cashmere 
shawl  in  Jetfery's  arm,  slowly  and  tenderly,  as 
though  it  were  a  child. 

Phillis  was  glad  that  Dulce  opened  the  door  to 
her  that  night,  for  she  was  afraid  of  Nan's  ques- 
tioning glance.  Nan  was  tired,  and  she  had  retired 
early;  and,  as  Dulce  was  sleepy  too,  Phillis  was 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  363 

now  left  in  peace.  She  passed  the  night  restlessly, 
waking  tip  at  all  sorts  of  untimely  hours,  her  con- 
science pricking  her  into  wakeftilness.  To  her  well- 
ordered  nature  there  was  something  terrifying  in 
the  thought  that  she  should  be  forced  to  take  such 
a  step. 

44Oh,  what  would  mother  and  Nan  say?"  was  her 
one  cry.  44I  know  I  am  dreadfully  impulsive  and 
imprudent,  but  Nan  would  think  I  am  not  to  be 
trusted ;"  but  she  had  passed  her  word,  and  noth- 
ing  now  would  have  induced  her  to  swerve  from  it. 

She  ate  her  breakfast  silently,  and  with  a  sense 
of  oppression  and  guilt  quite  new  to  her.  She  grew 
inwardly  hot  whenever  Nan  looked  at  her,  which 
she  did  continually  and  with  the  utmost  affection. 
Before  the  meal  was  over,  however,  Miss  Middleton 
and  Mattie  made  their  appearance,  and  in  the 
slight  bustle  of  entrance  Phillis  managed  to  effect 
her  escape. 

The  hour  that  followed  bore  the  unreality  of  a 
nightmare.  Outwardly,  Phillis  was  the  grave,  busi- 
ness-like dressmaker.  The  lady  who  had  sent  for 
her,  and  who  v/as  a  stranger  to  Hadleigh,  was  much 
struck  with  her  quiet,  self-possessed  manaers  and 
lady-like  demeanor. 

44 Her  voice  was  quite  refined,"  she  said  after- 
ward to  her  daughter.  "And  she  had  such  a  nice 
face  and  beautiful  figure.  I  am  sure  she  is  a  re- 
duced gentlewoman,  for  her  accent  was  perfect.  I 
am  quite  obliged  to  Miss  Milner  for  recommending 
us  such  a  person,  for  she  evidently  understands 
her  business.  One  thing  I  noticed,  Ada,  the  way 
in  which  she  quietly  laid  down  the  parcel,  and  said 
it  should  be  fetched  presently.  Any  ordinary  dress- 
maker in  a  small  town  like  this  would  have  carried 
it  home  herself. " 

Poor  Phillis!  she  had  laid  down  the  parcel  and 
drawn  on  her  well- fitting  gloves  with  a  curious 
sinking  at  her  heart:  from  the  window  of  the  house 
in  Rock  Building  she  could  distinctly  see  Mr.  Dancy 


364  HOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

walking  up  and  down  the  narrow  plat  of  grass  be- 
fore the  houses,  behind  the  tamarisk  hedge,  his 
foreign-looking  cloak  and  slouch  hat  making  him 
conspicuous. 

"There  is  that  queer-looking  man  again, 
mamma,"  exclaimed  one  of  the  young  ladies,  who 
was  seated  in  the  window.  "I  am  sure  he  is  some 
distinguished  foreigner,  he  has  such  an  air  with 
him." 

Phillis  listened  to  no  more,  but  hurried  down  the 
stairs,  and  then  prepared  to  cross  the  green  with 
some  degree  of  trepidation.  She  was  half  afraid 
that  Mr.  Dancy  would  join  her  at  once,  in  the  full 
view  of  curious  eyes;  but  he  knew  better.  He 
sauntered  on  slowly  until  he  reached  the  Parade, 
and  was  going  toward  a  part  of  the  beach  where 
there  was  only  a  knot  of  children  wading  knee-deep 
in  the  water,  sailing  a  toy  boat.  She  stood  and 
watched  them  dreamily,  until  the  voice  she  ex- 
pected sounded  in  her  ear; 

"True  as  steel!  Ah,  I  was  never  deceived  in  a 
face  yet.  Where  shall  we  sit,  Miss  Challoner? 
Yes,  this  is  a  quiet  corner,  and  the  children  will  not 
disturb  us.  Look  at  that  urchin,  with  his  bare 
brown  legs  and  curly  head:  is  he  not  a  study?  Ah, 
if  he  had  lived — my — "  And  then  he  sighed  and 
threw  himself  on  the  beach. 

"Well?"  observed  Phillis,  interrogatively.  She 
was  inclined  to  be  short  with  him  this  morning. 
She  had  kept  her  word,  and  put  herself  into  this 
annoying  position;  but  there  must  be  no  hesitation, 
no  beating  about  the  bush,  no  loss  of  precious 
time.  The  story  she  had  now  to  hear  must  be  told, 
and  without  delay. 

Mr.  Dancy  raised  his  eyes  as  he  heard  the  tone, 
and  then  he  took  off  his  spectacles,  as  though  he 
felt  them  an  incumbrance.  Phillis  had  a  very  good 
view  of  a  pair  of  handsome  eyes,  with  a  lurking 
gleam  of  humor  in  them,  which  speedily  died  away 
into  sadness. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER-  GIRLS.  365 

"You  are  in  a  hurry;  but  I  was  thinking  how  I 
could  best  begin  without  startling  you.  But  I  may 
as  well  get  it  out  without  any  prelude.  Miss  Chal- 
loner,  to  Mrs.  Williams  I  am  only  Mr.  Dancy,  but 
my  real  name  is  Herbert  Dancy  Cheyne. " 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

MISS   MEWLSTONE    HAS    AN    INTERRUPTION. 

"Herbert  Dancy  Cheyne!" 

As  he  pronounced  the  name  slowly  and  with 
marked  emphasis  a  low  cry  of  uncontrollable  aston- 
ishment broke  from  Phillis:  it  was  so  unexpected. 
She  began  to  shiver  a  little  from  the  sudden  shock. 

"There!  I  have  startled  you — and  no  wonder; 
and  yet  how  could  I  help  it?  Yes,"  he  repeated, 
calmly,  "I  am  that  unfortunate  Herbert  Cheyne 
whom  his  own  wife  believes  to  be  dead." 

44  Whom  every  one  believes  to  be  dead,"  corrected 
Phillis,  in  a  panting  breath. 

"Is  it  any  wonder?"  he  returned,  vehemently; 
and  his  eyes  darkened,  and  his  whole  features 
worked,  as  though  with  the  recollection  of  some  un- 
bearable pain.  "Have  I  not  been  snatched  from 
the  very  jaws  of  death?  Has  not  mine  been  a  living 
death,  a  hideous  grave,  for  these  four  years?" 
And  then,  hurriedly,  and  almost  disconnectedly,  as 
though  the  mere  recalling  of  the  past  was  torture  to 
him,  he  poured  into  the  girl's  shrinking  ears  frag- 
ments of  a  story  so  stern  in  its  reality,  so  terrible  in 
its  details,  that,  regardless  of  the  children  that 
played  on  the  margin  of  the  water,  Phillis  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands  and  wept  for  sheer  pity. 

Wounded,  bereft  of  all  his  friends,  and  left  appar- 
ently dying  in  the  hands  of  a  hostile  tribe,  Herbert 
Cheyne  had  owed  his  life  to  the  mercy  of  a  woman, 
a  poor,  degraded,  ill-used  creature,  half-witted  and 
ugly,  but.  who,,  .had  not  Ipst  all  the  instincts:  of 


866  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 

her  womanhood,  and  who  fed  and  nursed  the  white 
stranger  as  tenderly  as  though  he  were  her  own  son. 

While  the  old  negress  lived,  Herbert  Cheyne  had 
been  left  in  peace  to  languish  back  to  life,  through 
days  and  nights  of  intolerable  suffering,  until  he 
had  regained  a  portion  of  his  old  strength ;  then  a 
fever  carried  off  his  protectress,  and  he  became  vir- 
tually a  slave. 

Out  of  pity  for  the  tender-hearted  girl  who  lis- 
tened to  him",  Mr.  Cheyne  hurried  over  this  part  of 
his  sorrowful  past.  He  spoke  briefly  of  indignities, 
abuse,  and  at  last  of  positive  ill-treatment.  Again 
and  again  his  life  had  been  in  danger  from  brute 
violence;  again  and  again  he  had  striven  to  escape, 
and  had  been  recaptured  with  blows. 

Phillis  pointed  mutely  to  his  scarred  wrists,  and 
the  tears  flowed  down  her  cheeks. 

"Yes,  yes;  these  are  the  marks  of  my  slavery," 
he  replied,  bitterly.  "They  were  a  set  of  hideous 
brutes,  and  the  fetich  they  worshiped  was  cruelty. 
I  carry  about  me  other  marks  that  must  go  with  me 
to  my  grave;  but  there  is  no  need  to  dwell  on  these 
horrors.  He  sent  His  angel  to  deliver  me,"  he  con- 
tinued reverently;  "and  again  my  benefactor  was  a 
woman/1 

And  then  he  went  on  to  tell  Phillis  that  one  of  the 
wives  of  the  chief  in  whose  service  he  was,  took  pity 
on  him,  and  aided  him  to  escape  on  the  very  night 
before  some  great  festival  when  it  had  been  deter- 
mined to  kill  him.  This  time  he  had  succeeded; 
and,  after  a  series  of  hair-breadth  adventures,  he 
had  fallen  in  with  some  Dutch  traders,  who  had 
come  far  into  the  interior  in  search  of  ivory  tusks. 
He  was  so  burned  by  the  sun  and  disfigured  by 
paint  that  he  had  great  difficulty  in  proving  his  iden- 
tity as  an  Englishman.  But  at  last  they  had 
suffered  him  to  join  them,  and  after  some  more 
months  of  wandering  he  had  worked  his  way  to  the 
coast. 

There  misfortune  bad  again  overtaken  him,  in 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  $6? 

the  form  of  a  long  and  tedious  illness.  Fatigue, 
disaster,  anguish  of  mind,  and  a  slight  sunstroke 
had  taken  dire  effect  upon  him;  but  this  time  he 
had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  good  Samaritans.  The 
widowed  sister  of  the  consul,  a  very  Dorcas  of  good 
works,  had  received  the  miserable  stranger  into  her 
house;  and  she  and  her  son,  like  Elijah's  widow  of 
Zarephath,  had  shared  with  him  their  scanty  all. 

"They  were  very  poor,  but  they  pinched  them- 
selves for  the  sake  of  the  stricken  wretch  that  was 
thrown  on  their  mercy.  It  was  a  woman  again  who 
succored  me  the  third  time,"  continued  Mr. 
Cheyne:  "you  may  judge  how  sacred  women  are  in 
my  eyes  now!  Dear,  motherly  Mrs.  Van  Hollick! 
when  she  at  last  suffered  me  to  depart,  she  kissed 
and  blessed  me  as  though  I  were  her  own  son. 
Never  to  my  dying  day  shall  I  forget  her  goodness. 
My  one  thought,  after  seeing  Magdalene,  will  be 
how  I  am  to  repay  her  goodness — how  I  can  make 
prosperity  flow  in  on  the  little  household,  that  the 
cruse  and  cake  may  never  fail!" 

"But,"  interrupted  Phillis,  at  this  point,  "did  you 
not  write,  or  your  friends  write  for  you,  to  Eng- 
land?" 

Mr.  Cheyne  smiled  bitterly: 

"It  seems  as  though  some  strange  fatality  were 
over  me.  Yes,  I  wrote.  I  wrote  to  Magdalene,  to 
my  lawyer,  and  to  another  friend  who  had  known 
me  all  my  life,  but  the  ship  that  carried  these  let- 
ters was  burned  at  sea.  I  only  heard  that  when  I  at 
last  worked  my  way  to  Portsmouth  as  a  common 
sailor,  and  in  that  guise  presented  myself  at  my 
lawyer's  chambers.  Poor  man!  I  thought  he 
would  have  fainted  when  he  saw  me.  He  owned 
afterward  he  was  a  believer  in  ghosts  at  that  mo- 
ment" 

"How  long  ago  was  that?"  asked  Fiill:;?,  gently. 

"Two  months;  not  longer.     It  was  then  I  heard 
of  my  children's  death,  of  my  wife's    long  illness 
hsr  strange  stats.    I  was  UJ  myself,  an4  not  fit 


368  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 

to  battle  through  any  more  scenes.  Mr.  Standish 
took  me  home  until  I  had  rested  and  recovered  my- 
self a  little;  then  I  put  on  this  disguise— not  that 
much  of  it  is  necessary,  for  few  people  would  recog- 
nize me,  I  believe — and  came  down  here  and  took 
possession  of  Mrs.  Williams's  lodgings." 

Phillis  looked  at  him  with  mute  questioning  in 
her  eyes.  She  did  not  venture  to  put  it  into  words, 
but  he  understood  her. 

"Why  have  I  waited  so  long,  do  you  ask?  and  why 
am  I  living  here  within  sight  of  my  own  house,  a 
spy  on  my  own  threshold  and  wife?  My  dear  Miss 
Challoner,  there  is  a  bitter  reason  for  that!  Four 
years  ago  I  parted  from  my  wife  in  anger.  There 
were  words  said  that  day  that  few  women  could  for- 
give. Has  she  forgiven  them?  That  is  what  I  am 
trying  to  find  out.  Will  the  husband  that  has  been 
dead  to  her  all  these  years  be  welcome  to  her  liv- 
ing?" His  voice  dropped  into  low  vehemence,  and  a 
pallor  came  over  his  face  as  he  spoke. 

Phillis  laid  her  hand  on  his  own0  She  looked 
strangely  eager: 

"This  is  why  you  want  my  help.  Ah!  Iseenow! 
Oh,  it  is  all  right — all  that  you  can  wish!  It  is 
she  who  is  tormenting  herself,  who  has  no  rest  day 
or  night!  When  the  thunder  came  that  evening — 
you  remember — we  sat  beside  the  children's  empty 
beds,  and  she  told  me  some  of  her  thoughts.  When 
the  lightning  flashed,  her  nerves  gave  way,  and  she 
cried  out  in  her  pain,  4 Did  he  forgive?'  That  was  her 
one  thought.  Her  husband — who  was  up  in  heaven 
with  the  children — did  he  think  mercifully  of  her, 
and  know  how  she  loved  him?  It  was  your  name 
that  was  on  her  lips  when  that  good  woman,  Miss 
Mewlstone,  hushed  her  in  h^r  arms  like  a  child. 
Oh,  be  comforted!"  faltered  Phillis,  "for  she  loves 
you,  and  mourns  for  you  as  though  she  were  the 
most  desolate  creature  living!"  But  here  she 
paused,  for  something  that  sounded  like  a  sob  came 
to  her  ear,  and,  looking  round,  she  saw  the  bowed 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  36$ 

figure  of  her  companion  shaking  with  uncontrollable 
emotion — those  hard,  tearless  sobs  that  are  only 
wrung  from  a  man's  strong  agony. 

"Oh,  hush!"  cried  the  girl,  tenderly.  "Be  com- 
forted:  there  is  no  room  for  doubt.  There!  I  will 
leave  you;  you  will  be  better  by  and  by."  And 
then  instinctively  she  turned  away  her  face  from  a 
grief  too  sacred  for  a  stranger  to  touch,  and  walked 
down  to  the  water,  where  the  children  had  ceased 
playing,  and  listened  to  the  baby  waves  that  lapped 
about  her  feet. 

And  by  and  by  he  joined  her;  and  on  his  pale  face 
there  was  a  rapt,  serious  look,  as  of  one  who  has 
despaired  and  has  just  listened  to  an  angel's  tidings. 

"Did  I  not  say  that  you,  and  only  you,  could  help 
me?  This  is  what  I  have  wanted  to  know:  had 
Magdalene  forgiven  me?  Now  I  need  wait  no 
longer.  My  wife  and  home  are  mine,  and  I  must 
take  possession  of  my  treasures." 

He  stopped,  as  though  overcome  by  the  prospect 
of  such  happiness;  but  Phillis  timidly  interposed: 

"But,  Mr.  Cheyne,  think  a  moment.  How  is  it 
to  be  managed?  If  you  are  in  too  great  a  hurry, 
will  not  the  shock  be  too  much  for  her?  She  is  ner« 
vous — excitable.  It  would  hardly  be  safe." 

"That  is  what  troubles  me,"  he  returned, 
anxiously.  "It  is  too  much  for  any  woman  to 
bear,  and  Magdalene — she  was  always  excitable. 
Tell  me,  you  have  such  good  sense;  and,  though 
you  are  so  young,  one  can  always  rely  on  a  woman; 
you  understand  her  so  well — I  see  you  do — and  she 
is  fond  of  you — how  shall  we  act  that  my  poor  dar- 
ling, who  has  undergone  so  much,  may  not  be 
harmed  by  me  any  more?" 

"Wait  one  moment,"  returned  Phillis,  earnestly. 
"I  must  consider."  And  she  set  herself  to  evolve 
all  manner  of  possibilities,  and  then  rejected  them 
one  by  one.  "There  seems  no  other  way,"  she  ob- 
served, at  last,  fixing  her  serious  glance  on  Mr. 
Cheyne.  "I  must  seek  for  an  oppoitunity  to  speak, 


870  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 

to  Miss  Mewl  stone.  It  must  be  broken  carefully  to 
your  poor  wife;  I  am  sure  of  that.  Miss  Mewlstone 
will  help  us.  She  will  tell  us  what  to  do  and  how 
to  do  it.  Oh!  she  is  so  kind,  so  thoughtful  and  ten- 
der, just  as  though  Mrs.  Cheyne  were  a  poor  way- 
ward child  who  must  be  guided  and  helped  and 
shielded.  I  like  her  so  much:  we  must  go  to  her 
for  counsel. ' ' 

"You  must  indeed,  and  at  once!"  he  returned, 
rather  peremptorily;  and  Phillis  had  a  notion  now 
what  manner  of  man  he  had  been  before  misfor- 
tunes had  tamed  and  subdued  him.  His  eye  flashed 
with  eagerness;  he  grew  young,  alert,  full  of  life  in 
a  moment.  "Forgive  me  if  I  am  too  impetuous; 
but  I  have  waited  so  long,  and  now  my  patience 
seems  exhausted  all  at  once  during  the  last  hour. 
I  have  been  at  fever-point  ever  since  you  have 
proved  to  me  that  my  wife— my  Magdalene — has 
been  true  to  me.  Fool  that  I  was!  why  have  I 
doubted  so  long?  Miss  Challoner,  you  will  not 
desert  me?  you  will  be  my  good  angel  a  little 
longer?  You  will  go  to  Miss  Mewlstone  now — this 
very  moment — and  ask  her  to  prepare  my  wife?" 

"It  is  time  for  me  to  be  going  home:  mother  and 
Nan  will  think  I  am  lost,"  returned  Phillis,  in  a 
quiet,  matter-of-fact  tone.  "Come,  Mr.  Cheyne,  we 
can  talk  as  we  go  along."  For  he  was  so  wan  and 
agitated  that  she  felt  uneasy  for  his  sake.  She  took 
his  arm  gently,  and  guided  him  as  though  he  were 
a  child,  and  he  obeyed  her  like  one. 

"Promise  me  that  you  will  speak  to  her  at  once," 
he  said,  as  he  walked  beside  her  rather  feebly ;  and 
his  gait  became  all  at  once  like  that  of  an  old  man. 
But  Phillis  fenced  this  remark  very  discreetly. 

"This  afternoon  or  this  evening,  when  I  get  the 
chance, "  she  said,  very  decidedly.  "If  I  am  to  help 

S)u,  it  must  be  as  I  think  best,  and  at  my  own  time. 
o  not  think  me  unkind,  for  I  am  doing  this  for 
your  own  good :  it  would  not  help  you  if  your  wife 
were  to  be  brought  to  the  brink  of  a  nervous  illness. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  571 

Leave  it  tome.  Miss  Mewlstone  will  serve  us  best, 
and  she  will  know."  And  then  she  took  her  hand 
from. his  arm,  and  bade  him  drop  behind  a  little, 
that  she  might  not  be  seen  in  town  walking  with 
him.  "Good-bye!  keep  up  your  courage.  I  will 
help  you  all  I  can,"  she  said,  with  a  kindly  smile, 
as  he  reluctantly  obeyed  her  behest.  She  was  his 
good  angel,  but  he  must  not  walk  any  longer  in  her 
shadow:  angels  do  their  good  deeds  invisibly,  as 
Phillis  hoped  to  do  hers.  He  thought  of  this  as  he 
watched  her  disappearing  in  the  distance. 

Phillis  walked  rapidly  toward  the  cottage. 
Archie,  who  was  letting  himself  in  at  his  own  door, 
saw  the  girl  pass,  carrying  her  head  high,  and  step- 
ping lightly,  as  though  she  were  treading  on  air. 
"Here  comes  Atalanta,"  he  said  to  himself ;  but, 
though  a  smile  came  over  his  tired  face,  he  made  no 
effort  to  arrest  her.  The  less  he  saw  of  any  of 
them  the  better,  he  thought,  just  now. 

Nan  looked  up  reproachfully  as  the  truant  entered 
the  work-room,  and  Mrs.  Challoner  wore  her  grav- 
est expression:  evidently  she  had  prepared  a  lec- 
ture for  the  occasion.  Phillis  looked  at  them  both 
with  sparkling  eyes. 

"Listen  to  me,  Nan  and  mother.  Oh,  I  am  glad 
Dulce  is  not  here,  she  is  so  young  and  giddy:  and 
she  might  talk.  No,  not  a  word  from  either  of  you 
until  I  have  had  my  turn."  And  then  she  began 
her  story. 

Nan  listened  with  rapt,  speechless  attention,  but 
Mrs.  Challoner  gave  vent  to  little  pitying  moans 
and  exclamations  of  dismay. 

"Oh,  my  child!"  she  kept  saying,  "to  think  of 
your  being  mixed  up  in  such  an  adventure!  How 
could  you  be  so  imprudent  and  daring?  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams's  lodger — a  strange  man!  in  that  outlandish 
cloak,  too!  and  you  walked  home  with  him  that 
dark  night!  Oh,  Phillis,  I  shall  never  be  at  peace 
about  you  again!"  and  so  on. 

Phillis  frore  all  this  patiently,  for  she  knew 


372  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

had  been  incautious;  and  when  her  mother's  excite- 
ment had  calmed  down  a  little,  she  unfolded  to 
them  her  plan. 

"I  must  see  Miss  Mewlstone  quite  alone,  and  that 
unfinished  French  merino  will  be  such  a  good  ex- 
cuse, Nan.  I  will  take  the  body  with  me  this  after- 
noon, and  beg  her  to  let  me  try  it  on ;  the  rest  must 
come  afterward,  but  this  will  be  the  best  way  of 
getting  her  to  myself."  And.  as  Nan  approved  of 
this  scheme,  and  Mrs.  Challoner  did  not  dissent, 
Phillis  had  very  soon  made  up  her  parcel,  and  was 
walking  rapidly  toward  the  White  House. 

As  she  turned  in  at  the  gates  she  could  see  a 
shadow  on  the  blind  of  Mrs.  Williatns's  little  parlor, 
and  waved  her  hand  toward  it.  He  was  watching 
her,  she  knew;  she  longed  to  go  back  and  give  him 
a  word  of  encouragement  and  exhortation  to 
patience;  but  some  one,  Mr.  Drummond,  perhaps, 
might  see  her,  and  she  dared  not  venture. 

She  sent  her  message  by  Jeffreys,  and  Miss  Mewl- 
stone soon  came  trotting  into  the  room;  but  she 
wore  a  slightly  disturbed  expression  on  her  good- 
natured  face. 

She  had  been  reading  the  third  volume  of  a  very 
interesting  novel,  and  had  most  unwillingly  laid 
down  her  book  at  the  young  dressmaker's  unseason- 
able request.  Like  many  other  stout  people,  Miss 
Mewlstone  was  more  addicted  to  passivity  than 
activity  after  her  luncheon;  and,  being  a  creature 
of  habit,  this  departure  from  her  usual  rule  flurried 
her. 

"Dear,  dear!  to  think  of  your  wanting  to  try  on 
that  French  merino  again!"  she  observed;  "and  the 
other  dress  fitted  so  beautifully,  and  no  trouble  at 
all.  And  there  has  Miss  Middleton  been  calling 
just  now,  and  saying  they  are  expecting  her 
brother  Hammond  home  from  India  in  November; 
and  it  is  getting  toward  the  end  of  September  now. 
I  was  finishing  my  book,  but  I  could  not  help  lis- 
tening to  her — she  has  such  a  sweet  voice.  Ah,  just 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  £73 

so — just  so!  But  aren't  you  going  to  open  your 
parcel,  my  dear?*' 

"N>ver  mind  the  dress,"  returned  Phillis, 
quickly.  "Dear  Miss  Mewlstone,  I  was  sorry  to 
disturb  you,  but  it  could  not  be  helped.  Don't  look 
at  the  parcel:  that  is  only  an  excuse.  My  business 
is  far  more  important.  I  want  you  to  put  on  your 
bonnet, and  come  with  me  just  a  little  way  across  the 
road.  There  is  some  one's  identity  that  you  must 
prove." 

Phillis  was  commencing  her  task  in  a  somewhat 
lame  fashion;  but  Miss  Mewlstone  was  still  too 
much  engrossed  with  her  novel  to  notice  her  visitor's 
singular  agitation. 

44 Ah,  just  so — just  so,"  she  responded;  "that  is 
exactly  what  the  last  few  chapters  have  been 
about.  The  real  heir  has  turned  up,  and  is  trying 
to  prove  his  own  identity;  only  he  is  so  changed 
that  no  one  believes  him.  It  is  capitally  worked 
out.  A  very  clever  author,  my  dear " 

But  Phillis  interrupted  her  a  little  eagerly: 

"Is  that  your  tale,  dear  Miss  Mewlstone?  How 
often  people  say  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction!  Do 
you  know,  I  have  heard  a  story  in  real  life  far  more 
wonderful  than  that?  Some  one  was  telling  me 
about  it  just  now.  There  was  a  man  whom  every 
one,  even  his  own  wife,  believed  to  be  dead;  but 
after  four  years  of  incredible  dangers  and  hardships 
— oh,  such  hardships! — he  arrived  safely  in  Eng- 
land, and  took  up  his  abode  just  within  sight  of  his 
old  house,  where  he  could  see  his  wife  and  find  out 
all  about  her  without  being  seen  himself.  He  put 
on  some  sort  of  disguise,  I  think,  so  that  people 
could  not  find  him  out." 

"That  must  be  a  rnade-up  story,  I  think,"  re- 
turned Miss  Mewlstone,  a  little  provokingly;  but 
her  head  was  still  full  of  her  book.  Poor  woman  !  she 
wanted  to  get  back  to  it.  She  looked  at  Phillis  and 
the  parcel  a  little  plaintively.  "Ah,  just  so — a  very 


374  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 

pretty  story,  but  improbable — very  improbable, 
my  dear." 

4 'Nevertheless,  it  is  true!"  returned  Phillis,  so 
vehemently  that  Miss  Mewlstone's  little  blue  eyes 
opened  more  widely.  "Never  mind  your  book.  I 
tell  you  I  have  business  so  important  that  nothing 
is  of  consequence  beside  it.  Where  is  Mrs.  Cheyne? 
She  must  not  know  we  are  going  out. " 

"Going  out!"  repeated  Miss  Mewlstone,  help- 
lessly. "My  dear,  I  never  go  out  after  luncheon, 
as  Magdalene  knows." 

"But  you  are  going  out  with  me,"  replied  Phillis, 
promptly.  "Dear  Miss  Mewlstone,  I  know  I  am 
perplexing  and  worrying  you;  but  what  can  I  do? 
Think  over  what  I  have  just  said — about — about 
that  improbable  story,  as  you  called  it;  and  then 
you  will  not  be  so  dreadfully  startled.  You  must 
come  with  me  now  to  Mrs.  Williams's  cottage:  I 
want  you  to  see  her  lodger." 

"Her  lodger!"  Miss  Mewlstone  was  fully  roused 
now;  and,  indeed,  Phillis's  pale  face  and  sup- 
pressed eager  tones  were  not  without  their  due 
effect.  Had  the  girl  taken  leave  of  her  senses? 
Why,  the  ladies  at  the  White  House  led  the  lives  of 
recluses.  Why  should  she  be  asked  to  call  upon 
any  stranger,  but  especially  a  gentleman — Mrs. 
Williams's  lodger?  "My  dear,"  she  faltered,  "you 
are  very  strange  this  afternoon.  Magdalene  and  I 
seldom  call  on  any  one,  and  certainly  not  on  a  gen- 
tleman." 

"You  must  come  with  me,"  replied  Phillis,  half 
crying  with  excitement.  She  found  her  task  so 
difficult.  Miss  Mewlstone  was  as  yielding  as  a 
feather-bed  in  appearance,  an<3  yet  it  was  impos- 
sible to  move  her.  "He  calls  himself  Mr.  Dancy; 
but  now  he  says  that  is  not  all  his  name:  let  me 
whisper  it  in  your  ear,  if  it  will  not  startle  you  too 
much.  Think  of  Mrs.  Cheyne,  and  try  and  com- 
mand yourseit.  Mrs.  Williams  s  lodger  says  that  he 
is  Herbert  Cheyne — poor  Mrs.  Cheyne's  husband!" 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  375 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

"BARBY,  DON'T  YOU  RECOLLECT  ME?" 

44 1  do  not  believe  it — stuff  and  nonsense!  You 
are  crazy,  child,  to  come  to  me  with  this  trumped- 
up  story!  The  man  is  an  impostor.  I  will  have 
the  police  to  him.  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  let 
Magdalene  hear  this  nonsense!" 

Phillis  recoiled  a  few  steps,  speechless  with 
amazement.  Miss  Mewlstone's  face  was  crimson ; 
her  small  eyes  were  sparkling  with  angry  excite- 
ment: all  her  softness  and  gentle  inanity  had  van- 
ished. 

"Give  me  a  bonnet — shawl — anything,  and  I  will 
put  this  matter  straight  in  a  moment.  Where  is 
Jeffreys?  Ring  the  bell,  please,  Miss  Challoner!  I 
must  speak  to  her." 

Phillis  obeyed  without  a  word. 

44 Ah,  just  so!  Jeffreys,"  resuming  her  old  purring 
manner  as  the  maid  appeared,  *4this  young  lady  has 
a  friend  in  trouble,  and  wants  me  to  go  down  to 
the  cottage  with  her.  Keep  it  from  the  mistress  if 
you  can,  for  she  hates  hearing  of  anything  sad;  say 
we  are  busy—I  shall  be  in  to  tea — anything.  I 
know  you  will  be  discreet,  Jeffreys." 

44 Yes,  ma'am,"  returned  Jeffreys,  adjusting  the 
shawl  over  Miss  Mewlstone's  shoulders;  44but  this 
is  your  garden  shawl,  surely?" 

44Oh,  it  does  not  matter;  it  will  do  very  well. 
Now,  Miss  Challoner,  I  am  ready."  And  so  noise- 
less and  rapid  were  her  movements  that  Phillis  had 
much  to  do  to  keep  up  with  her. 

44  Won't  you  listen  to  me?"  she  pleaded.  44Dear 
Miss  Mewlstone,  it  is  no  made-up  story;  it  is  all 
true;"  but,  to  her  astonishment,  Miss  Mewlstone 
faced  round  upon  her  in  a  most  indignant  manner: 

t4Be   silent,  child!     I  cannot,  and  will  not,  hear 


376  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

any  more.  How  should  you  know  anything  about 
it?  Have  you  ever  seen  Herbert  Cheyne?  You  are 
the  tool  of  some  impostor.  But  I  will  guard  Mag- 
dalene; she  shall  not  be  driven  mad.  No,  no,  poor 
dear!  she  shall  not,  as  long  as  she  has  old  Bathsheba 
to  watch  over  her."  And  Phillis,  in  despair,  very 
wisely  held  her  peace.  After  all,  she  was  a 
stranger,  had  she  any  proof  but  Mr.  Dancy's  word? 

Just  toward  the  last,  Miss  Mewlstone's  pace  slack- 
ened; and  her  hand  shook  so,  as  she  tried  to  unlatch 
the  little  gate,  that  Phillis  was  obliged  to  come  to 
her  assistance.  The  cottage  door  stood  open,  as 
usual,  but  there  was  no  tall  figure  lurking  in  the 
background — no  shadow  on  the  blind. 

44 We  had  better  go  in  there,'*  whispered  Phillis, 
pointing  to  the  closed  door  of  the  parlor;  and  Miss 
Mewlstone,  without  knocking,  at  once  turned  the 
handle  and  went  in,  while  Phillis  followed  trem- 
bling. 

44 Well,  sir, ".said  Miss  Mewlstone,  sternly.  "I 
have  come  to  know  what  you  mean  by  imposing 
your  story  on  this  child." 

Mr.  Dancy,  who  was  standing  with  his  back  to 
them,  leaning  for  support  against  the  little  mantel- 
shelf, did  not  answer  for  a  moment;  and  then  he 
turned  slowly  round,  and  looked  at  her. 

"Oh.  Barby!"  he  said,  "don't  you  recollect  me?" 
And  then  he  held  out  his  thin  hands  to  her  implor- 
ingly, and  added,  44Dear  old  Barby!  but  you  are 
not  a  bit  changed." 

"Herbert — why,  good  Heavens!  Ah,  just  so — just 
so!"  gasped  the  poor  lady,  rather  feebly,  as  she  sat 
down,  feeling  her  limbs  were  deserting  her,  and 
every  scrap  of  color  left  her  face.  Indeed,  she 
looked  so  flabby  and  lifeless  that  Phillis  was  alarmed, 
and  flew  to  her  assistance;  only  Mr.  Cheyne  waved 
her  aside  rather  impatiently. 

"Let  her  be;  she  is  all  right.  She  knows  me, 
you  see;  so  I  cannot  be  so  much  altered.  Barby," 
he  went  on,  in  a  coaxing  voice,  as  he  knelt  beside 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  877 

her  and  chafed  her  hands,  "you  thought  I  was  an 
impostor  and  were  coming  to  threaten  me;  were 
you  not?  But  now  you  see  Miss  Challoner  was  in 
the  right.  Have  you  got  a  word  for  me?  Won't 
you  talk  to  me  about  Magdalene?  We  have  got  to 
prepare  her,  you  know." 

Then,  as  he  spoke  his  wife's  name,  and  she 
remembered  her  sacred  charge,  the  faithful  creat- 
ure suddenly  fell  on  his  neck  in  piteous  weeping. 

"Oh,  the  bonny  face,"  she  wept,  "that  has  grown 
so  old,  with  the  sorrow  and  the  gray  hair!  My 
dear,  this  will  just  kill  her  with  joy,  after  all  her 
years  of  bitter  widowhood  "  And  then  she  cried 
again,  and  stroked  his  face  as  though  he  were  a 
child,  and  then  wrung  her  hands  for  pity  at  the 
changes  she  saw.  "It  is  the  same  face,  and  yet  not 
the  same,"  she  said,  by  and  by.  "I  Knew  the  look 
of  your  eyes,  my  bonny  man,  for  all  they  were  so 
piercing  with  sadness  But  what  have  they  done 
to  you,  Herbert — for  it  might  be  your  own  ghost — 
so  thin;  and  yet  you  are  brown,  too;  and  your 
hair!"  And  she  touched  the  gray  locks  over  the 
temples  with  tender,  flattering  fingers. 

"Magdalene  never  liked  gray  hairs,"  he  re- 
sponded, with  a  sigh.  "She  is  as  beautiful  as  ever, 
I  hear;  but  I  have  not  caught  a  glimpse  of  her. 
Tell  me,  Barby — for  I  have  grown  timorous  with 
sorrow — will  she  hate  the  sight  ot  such  a  miserable 
scarecrow?" 

"My  dear!  hate  the  sight  of  her  own  husband, 
who  is  given  back  to  her  from  the  dead?  Ay,  I  have 
much  to  hear.  Why  did  you  never  write  to  us, 
Herbert?  But  there!  you  have  all  that  to  explain 
to  her  by  and  by." 

"Yes;  and  you  must  tell  me  about  the  children — 
my  little  Janie, "  he  returned,  in  a  choked  voice. 

"Ah,  the  dear  angels!  But,  Herbert,  you  must 
be  careful.  Nobody  speaks  of  them  to  Magdalene, 
unless  she  does  herself.  You  are  impetuous,  my 
dear;  and  Magdalene — well,  she  has  not  been  her- 


378  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

self  since  you  left  her.  It  is  pining,  grief,  and  tho 
dead  weight  of  loss  that  has  ailed  her,  being  child- 
less and  widowed  at  once.  There,  there!  just  so. 
We  must  be  tender  to  her,  poor  dear!  and  things 
will  soon  come  right." 

"You  need  not  fear  me,  Barby.  I  have  learned 
my  lesson  at  last.  If  I  only  get  my  wife  back,  you 
shall  see — you  shall  see  how  I  will  make  up  to  her 
for  all  I  have  ever  made  her  suffer!  My  poor  girl! 
my  poor  girl!"  And  then  he  shaded  his  face,  and 
was  silent. 

Phillis  had  stolen  out  in  the  garden,  and  sat  down 
on  a  little  bench  outside,  where  passers-by  could 
not  discern  her  from  the  road,  and  where  only  the 
sound  of  their  voices  reached  her  faintly.  Now  and 
then  chance  words  f<;ll  on  her  ear — " Magdalene" 
over  and  over  again,  and  "Janie"  and  " Bertie" — 
always  in  the  voice  she  had  so  admired.  By  and  by 
she  heard  her  own  name,  and  rose  at  once,  and 
found  them  looking  for  her. 

"Here  is  my  good  angel,  Barby,"  observed  Mr. 
Cheyne,  as  she  came  up  smiling.  "Not  one  girl  in 
a  thousand  would  have  acted  as  bravely  and  simply 
as  she  has  done.  We  are  friends  for  life,  Miss  Chal- 
loner,  are  we  not?"  And  he  stretched  out  his  hand 
to  her,  and  Phillis  laid  her  own  in  it. 

"I  was  a  bit  harsh  with  you,  dearie,  was  I  not?" 
returned  Miss  Mewlstone,  apologetically;  "but 
there,  you  were  such  a  child  that  I  thought  you  had 
been  deceived  But  I  ought  to  have  known  better, 
craving  your  pardon,  my  dear.  Now  we  will  just 
go  back  to  Magdalene;  and  you  must  help  my 
stupid  old  head,  for  I  am  fairly  crazy  at  the 
thought  of  telling  her.  Go  back  into  the  parlor  and 
lie  down,  Herbert,  for  you  are  terribly  exhausted. 
You  must  have  patience,  my  man,  a  wee  bit 
longer,  for  we  must  be  cautious— cautious,  you 
see  " 

"Yes,  I  must  have  patience,"  he  responded, 
rather  bitterly.  But  he  went  back  into  the  room 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  379 

and  watched  them  until  they  disappeared  into  the 
gates  of  his  own  rightful  paradise. 

Miss  Mewlstone  was  leaning  on  Phillis's  arm. 
Her  gait  was  still  rather  feeble,  but  the  girl  was 
talking  energetically  to  her. 

44 What  a  spirit  she  has!  just  like  Magdalene  at 
her  age,"  he  thought,  "only  Magdalene  never 
possessed  her  even  temper.  My  poor  girl!  from 
what  Barby  says,  she  has  grown  hard  and  bitter 
with  trouble.  But  it  shall  be  my  aim  in  life  to  com- 
fort her  for  all  she  has  been  through!"  And  then, 
as  he  thought  of  his  dead  children,  and  of  the 
empty  nursery,  he  groaned  and  threw  himself  face 
downward  upon  the  couch.  But  a  few  minutes 
afterward  he  had  started  up  again,  unable  to  rest, 
and  began  to  pace  the  room;  and  then,  as  though 
the  narrow  space  confined  him,  he  continued  his 
restless  walk  into  the  garden,  and  then  into  the 
shrubberies  of  the  White  House. 

44 My  dear,  T  am  not  as  young  as  I  was.  I  feel  as 
if  all  this  were  too  much  for  me,"  sighed  Miss 
Mewlstone,  as  she  pressed  her  companion's  arm. 
44One  needs  so  much  vitality  to  bear  such  scenes.  I 
am  terrified  for  Magdalene,  she  has  so  little  self- 
control  !  and  to  have  him  given  back  to  her  from  the 
dead!  1  thank  God!  but  I  am  afraid,  for  all  that." 
And  a  few  more  quiet  tears  stole  over  her  cheeks. 

4 'Thinking  of  it  only  makes  it  worse,"  returned 
Phillis,  feverishly.  She,  too,  dreaded  the  ordeal 
before  them;  but  she  was  young,  and  not  easily 
daunted.  All  the  way  through  the  shrubbery  she 
talked  on  breathlessly,  trying  to  rally  her  own  cour- 
age It  was  she  who  entered  the  drawing-room 
first,  for  poor  Miss  Mewlstone  had  to  efface  the 
signs  of  her  agitation. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  looked  surprised  to  see  her  alone. 

"Jeffreys  told  me  you  and  Miss  Mewlstone  had 
gone  out  together  on  a  little  business.  What  have 
you  done  with  poor  old  Barby?"  And,  as  Phillis 
answered  as  composedly  and  demurely  as  she  could; 


880  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  arched  her  eyebrows  in  her  old  satir- 
ical  way: 

"She  is  in  the  room,  is  she?  Never  mind  answer- 
ing, if  you  prefer  your  own  counsel.  Your  little 
mysteries  are  no  business  of  mine.  I  should  have 
thought  the  world  would  have  come  to  an  end, 
though,  before  Barby  had  thrown  down  the  third 
volume  of  a  novel  for  anything  short  of  a  fire.  But 
you  and  she  know  best.'1  And,  as  Phillis  flushed 
ami  looked  confused  under  her  scruting,  she  gave  a 
short  laugh  and  turned  away. 

It  was  a  relief  when  Miss  Mewlstone  came  trot- 
ting into  the  room  with  her  cap-strings  awry. 

"Dear,  dear!  have  we  kept  you  waiting  for  your 
tea,  Magdalene?"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  flurried  tone, 
as  she  bustled  up  to  the  table.  "Miss  Challcner 
had  a  little  business,  and  she  thought  I  might  help 
her.  Yes;  just  so!  I  have  brought  her  in,  for  she 
is  tired,  poor  thing!  and  I  knew  she  would  be  wel- 
come " 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  both  tired.  You 
are  as  hot  as  though  you  had  walked  for  miles, 
Barby.  Oh,  you  have  your  secrets,  too.  But  it  is 
not  for  me  to  meddle  with  mysteries."  And  then 
she  laughed  again,  and  threw  herself  back  on  her 
couch,  with  a  full  understanding  of  the  discomfort 
of  the  two  people  before  her. 

Phillis  saw  directly  she  was  in  a  hard,  cynical 
mood. 

"You  shall  know  our  business  by  and  by,"  she 
said,  very  quietly.  "Dear  Miss  Mewlstone,  I  am 
so  thirsty,  I  must  ask  you«for  another  cup  of  tea." 
But,  as  Miss  Mewlstone  took  the  cup  from  her,  the 
poor  lady's  hand  shook  so  with  suppressed  agitation 
that  the  saucer  slipped  from  her  grasp,  and  the 
next  moment  the  costly  china  lay  in  fragments  at 
her  feet. 

"Dear!  dear!  how  dreadfully  careless  of  me!" 
fumed  Miss  Mewlstone. 

But  Mrs.  Cheyne  made  no  observation.    She  only 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  381 

rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  another  cup.     But,  when 
the  servant  had  withdrawn,  she  said,  coldly: 

"Your  hand  is  not  as  steady  as  usual  this  even- 
ing, Barby;"  and  somehow  the  sharp,  incisive  tone 
cut  so  keenly  that,  to  Phillis's  alarm,  Miss  Mewl- 
stone  became  very  pale,  and  then  suddenly  burst 
into  tears. 

"This  is  too  much!"  observed  Mrs.  Cheyne,  ris- 
ing in  serious  displeasure.  She  had  almost  a  mas- 
culine abhorrence  of  tears  of  late  years,  the  very 
sight  of  them  excited  her  strangely. 

"Miss  Challoner  may  keep  her  mysteries  to  her- 
self if  she  likes,  but  I  insist  on  knowing  what  has 
upset  you  like  this." 

"Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!"  sobbed  the  simple  woman, 
wringing  her  hands  helplessly.  "This  is  just  too 
much  for  me!  Poor  soul!  how  am  I  to  tell  her?" 
And  then  she  looked  at  Phillis  in  affright  at  her 
own  words,  which  revealed  so  much  and  so  little. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  turned  exceedingly  pale,  and  a 
shadow  passed  over  her  face. 

14 Poor  soul!'  Does  she  mean  me?  Is  it  of  me 
you  are  speaking,  Barby?  Is  there  something  for 
me  to  know  that  you  dread  to  tell  me?  Poor  soul, 
indeed!"  And  then  her  features  contracted  and 
grew  pinched.  "But  you  need  not  be  afraid.  Is 
it  not  the  Psalmist  who  says,  'All  thy  waves  and 
thy  billows  have  gone  over  me?'  Drowned  people 
have  'nothing  to  fear;  there  is  no  fresh  trouble  for 
them."  And  her  eyes  took  an  awful,  stony  look 
that  terrified  Phillis. 

"Oh,  it  is  no  fresh  trouble,"  stammered  the  girl. 
"People  are  nor  tormented  like  that;  they  have  not 
to  suffer  more  than  they  can  bear." 

But  Mrs.  Cheyne  turned  upon  her  fiercely: 

"You  are  wrong — altogether  wrong.  I  could  not 
bear  it,  and  it  drove  me  mad — at  least  as  nearly 
mad  as  a  sane  woman  could  be.  I  felt  my  reason 
shaken;  my  brain  was  all  aflame,  and  I  cried  out  to 
Heaven  for  mercy,  and  a  blank  answered  me. 


382  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Barby,  if  there  be  fresh  trouble,  tell  me  instantly 
and  at  once.  What  do  I  care?  What  is  left  to  me, 
but  a  body  that  will  not  die  and  a  brain  that  will 
not  cease  to  think?  If  I  cotild  only  stop  the 
thoughts!  if  I  could  only  go  down  into  silence  and 
nothingness!  but  then  I  should  not  find  Herbert 
and  the  children.  Where  are  they?  I  forget!" 
She  stopped,  pressed  her  hands  to  her  brow  with  a 
strange,  bewildered  expression;  but  Miss  Mewl- 
stone  crept  up  to  her  and  touched  her  timidly. 

"My  bonny  Magdalene!"  she  exclaimed;  "don't 
let  the  ill  thoughts  come:  drive  them  away,  my 
poor  dear.  Look  at  me.  Did  old  Barby  ever  de- 
ceive you?  There  is  no  fresh  trouble,  my  pretty. 
In  His  own  good  time  the  All-Merciful  has  had 
mercy!" 

Mrs.  Cheyne's  hand  dropped  down  to  her  side, 
but  her  brilliant  eyes  showed  no  comprehension  of 
her  words. 

"Why  did  you  frighten  me  like  that?"  she  re- 
peated, rocking  herself  to  and  fro;  and  her  voice 
had  a  high,  strained  tone  in  it  "There  is  no 
trouble,  but  your  face  is  pale,  and  there  are  tears 
in  your  eyes,  and  look  how  your  hand  shakes!  Miss 
Challoner — Phillis,  what  does  she  mean?  Barby, 
you  are  a  foolish  old  woman;  your  wits  are 
gone." 

"If  they  are  gone,  it  is  with  joy!"  she  sobbed. 
"Yes,  my  precious  one!  for  sheer  joy!"  but  then 
she  broke  down  utterly.  It  was  Phillis  who  came 
to  the  rescue. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Cheyne,  I  think  I  could  tell  you 
best,"  she  began,  in  her  sensible  voice,  which  some- 
how stilled  Mrs.  Cheyne's  frightful  agitation. 
"There  has  been  some  news — a  letter  that  has  been 
lost,  which  ought  to  have  arrived  some  months  ago. 
We  have  heard  about  it  this  afternoon."  She 
stopped,  for  there  seemed  to  be  a  faint  sound  of 
footsteps  in  the  hall  below.  Could  he  have  followed 
them?  What  would  be  the  result  of  such  impru- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  383 

dence?  But,  as  she  faltered  and  hesitated,  Mrs. 
Cheyne  gripped  her  arm  with  an  iron  force: 

"A  letter  from  Herbert!  Did  he  write  to  me? 
dh.  my  darling!  did  he  write  to  me  before  he  died? 
Only  one  word — one  word  of  forgiveness,  and  I  will 
say  Heaven  indeed  is  merciful!  Give  it  to  me, 
Barby!  Why  do  you  keep  me  waiting?  Oh,  this  is 
blessed  news!"  But  Miss  Mewlstone  only  clasped 
her  gently  in  her  arms. 

"One  moment,  my  dearie!  There  is  more  than 
that.  It  is  not  a  message  from  Heaven.  There  is 
still  one  living  on  earth  that  loves  you!  Try  and 
follow  my  meaning,"  for  the  perplexed  stare  had 
returned  again.  "Say  to  yourself,  'Perhaps,  after 
all,  Herbert  is  not  dead.  Nobody  saw  him  die. 
He  may  be  alive;  he  may  have  written  to  me — '" 
She  stopped,  for  Mrs.  Cheyne  had  suddenly  flung 
"up  her  arms  over  her  head  with  a  hoarse  cry  that 
rang  through  the  house: 

"Herbert!  Herbert!  Herbert!" 

"I  am  here — Magdalene!  Magdalene!"  A  tall 
figure  that  had  crept  unperceived  through  the  open 
hall  door,  and  had  lurked  unseen  in  the  shadow  of 
the  portiere,  suddenly  dashed  into  the  room,  and 
took  his  wife's  rigid  form  into  his  arms.  "Magda- 
lene —love — wife !  It  is  Herbert !  Look  up,  my 
darling!  I  am  here!  I  am  holding  you!"  But  there 
was  no  response.  Magdalene's  face  was  like  the 
face  of  the  dead. 

They  took  her  from  him  almost  by  force,  for  he 
refused  to  give  her  up.  Over  and  over  again  they 
prayed  him  to  leave  her  to  their  care,  but  he 
seemed  like  a  man  that  did  not  hear. 

"She  is  dead!  I  have  killed  her;  but  there  is  no 
reason  why  I  should  give  her  up,"  he  said,  with 
terrible  calm  in  his  voice. 

"She  is  not  dead!"  returned  Miss  Mewlstone, 
almost  angrily.  "She  has  been  like  this  before; 
but  Jeffreys  and  1  know  what  to  do.  Ay,  you  were 
always  willful,  Herbert;  but  when  it  comes- to  kill- 


884  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

ing  your  own  wife — "     And  after  this  he  consented 
to  lay  her  down  on  her  couch. 

He  watched  them  with  wistful  eyes  as  they  tried 
the  usual  remedies,  but  it  was  long  before  even  the 
flicker  of  an  eyelid  spoke  to  them  of  life.  At  the 
first  sign  of  returning  animation  Herbert  crept  just 
behind  his  wife's  pillow,  where  he  could  see  the 
first  unclosing  of  the  drooping  lids.  When  Magda- 
lene opened  her  eyes  at  last,  they  fell  full  on  her 
husband's  face. 

Phillis,  who  was  beside  her,  marveled  at M;_h&* 
strange  beauty  of  that  rapt  look,  as  she  lay;and 
gazed  at  him. 

"Herbert's  face!"  they  heard  her  whisper,  in  an 
awe-struck  voice.  "Then  I  have  died  at  last,  and 
am  in  Heaven.  Oh,  how  merciful!  but  I  have  not 
deserved  it — a  sinner  such  as  I." 

"Magdalene,  my  darling,  you  are  in  our  own  home! 
It  is  I  who  was  lost  and  have  come  back  to  you. 
Look  at  me.  It  is  only  the  children  who  are  in 
Heaven.  You  and  I  are  spared  to  each  other  on 
earth. "  But  for  a  long  time  her  scattered  faculties 
failed  to  grasp  the  truth. 

Phillis  went  home  at  last  and  left  them.  There 
was  nothing  she  could  do,  and  she  was  utterly 
spent;  but  Miss  Mewlstone  kept  watch  beside  her 
charge  until  late  into  the  night. 

Little  by  little  the  truth  dawned  on  the  numbed 
brain;  slowly  and  by  degrees  the  meaning  of  her 
husband's  tears  and  kisses  sunk  into  the  clouded 
mind.  Now  and  again  she  wandered,  but  Herbert's 
voice  always  recalled  her. 

"Then  I  am  not  dead?"  she  asked  him,  again  and 
again.  "They  do  not  cry  in  Heaven,  and  Barby  was 
crying  just  now.  Barby,  am  I  dreaming?  Who  is 
this  beside  me?  is  it  Herbert's  ghost?  only  his  hands 
are  warm,  and  mine  are  so  terribly  cold.  Why, 
you  are  crying,  too,  love;  but  I  am  too  tired  to  un- 
derstand." And  then  she  crept  wearily  closer  and 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  385 

closer  into  his  arms,  like  a  tired-out  child  who  has 
reached  home. 

And  when  Herbert  stooped  over  her  gently  he 
saw  that  the  long  lashes  lay  on  her  cheek.  Magda- 
lene had  fallen  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

MOTES    IN    THE    SUNSHINE. 

That  sleep  was,  humanly  speaking,  Magdalene's 
salvation. 

At  the  greatest  crisis  of  her  life,  when  reason 
hung  in  the  balance — when  the  sudden  influx  of  joy 
might  have  paralyzed  the  overwrought  heart  and 
brain — at  that  moment  physical  exhaustion  saved 
her  by  that  merciful,  overpowering  sleep. 

When  she  woke,  it  was  to  the  resurrection  of  her 
life  and  love.  Months  afterward  she  spoke  of  that 
waking  to  Phillis,  when  she  lay  in  her  bed  weak  as 
a  new-born  babe,  and  the  early  morning  light 
streamed  full  on  the  face  of  her  slumbering  hus- 
band. 

They  were  alone;  for  Miss  Mewlstone  had  just 
crept  softly  from  the  room.  Her  movement  had 
roused  Magdalene.  Herbert,  who  was  utterly 
worn  out  by  his  long  watching,  had  just  dropped 
asleep,  with  his  head  resting  against  the  woodwork. 
He  was  still  sitting  in  the  arm-chair  beside  her, 
and  only  the  thin  profile  was  visible. 

The  previous  night  had  been  passed  by  Magda- 
lene in  a  semi-conscious  state;  delirious  imagina- 
tions had  blended  with  realities.  There  were 
flashes  and  intervals  ot  comparative  consciousness, 
when  the  truth  rushed  into  her  mind;  but  she  had 
been  too  weak  to  retain  it  long.  That  she  was 
dreaming  or  dead  was  her  fixed  idea;  that  this  was 
her  husband's  greeting  to  her  in  paradise  seemed 
to  be  her  one  thought.  *4 Strange  that  the  children 
do  not  kiss  me,  too,"  they  heard  her  say  once. 

25  Girls. 


386  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

But  now,  as  she  opened  her  eyes,  there  was  no 
blue  misty  haze  through  which  she  ever  feebly 
sought  to  pierce.  She  was  lying  in  her  own  room, 
where  she  had  passed  so  many  despairing  days  and 
nights  The  windows  were  open ;  the  sweet,  crisp 
morning  air  fanned  her  temples;  the  birds  were 
singing  in  the  garden  below,  and  there  beside  her 
was  the  face  so  like,  yet  so  unlike,  the  face  from 
which  she  had  parted  four  years  ago. 

For  a  little  while  she  lay  and  watched  in  a  sort  of 
trance;  and  then  in  the  stillness  full  realization 
came  to  her,  and  she  knew  that  she  was  not  mad  or 
dreaming.  This  was  no  imagination;  it  was  reality. 

With  incredible  effort,  for  she  felt  strangely  weak, 
she  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  to  study  that  dear 
face  more  closely,  for  the  change  in  it  baffled  her. 
Could  this  be  her  Herbert?  How  bronzed  and 
thin  he  had  grown!  Those  lines  that  furrowed  his 
forehead,  those  hollows  in  the  temples  and  under 
the  eyes,  were  new  to  her.  And,  oh,  the  pity  of 
those  gray  hairs  in  the  place  of  the  brown,  wavy 
locks  she  remembered!  But  it  was  when  she  laid 
her  lips  against  the  scarred  wrist  that  Herbert 
woke,  and  met  the  full  look  of  recognition  in  his 
wife's  eyes,  for  which  he  had  waited  so  long. 

Now  he  could  fall  upon  his  knees  beside  her,  and 
crave  that  forgiveness  for  words  and  acts  that  had 
seared  his  conscience  all  these  years  like  red-hot 
iron.  But  at  the  first  word  she  stopped  him,  and 
drew  his  head  to  her  breast: 

44 Oh,  Herbert,  hush!  What!  ask  forgiveness  of 
me,  when  I  have  sinned  against  you  doubly — trebly 
- — when  I  was  no  true  wife,  as  you  know?  Oh,  do 
not  let  us  ask  it  of  each  other,  but  of  God,  whom  we 
have  so  deeply  offended!  He  has  punished  us,  but 
He  has  been  merciful  too.  He  has  taken  our  chil- 
dren because  we  did  not  deserve  them.  Oh,  Her- 
bert! what  will  you  do  without  them — for  you  loved 
Janie  so!"  And  then,  for  a  little  while  the  childless 
parents  could  only  hold  each  other's  hands  and 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  38? 

weep,  for  to  Herbert  Cheyne  the  grief  was  new,  and 
at  the  sight  of  her  husband's  sorrow  Magdalene's 
old  wounds  seemed  to  open  and  bleed  afresh;  only 
now — now  she  did  not  weep  alone. 

When  Miss  Mewlstone  entered  the  room,  shortly 
afterward,  she  found  Magdalene  lying  spent  and 
weary,  holding  her  husband's  hand. 

Joy  had  indeed  returned  to  the  White  House,  but 
for  a  long  time  it  was  joy  that  was  strangely  tem- 
pered with  sorrow.  Upstairs  no  sound  greeted 
Herbert  from  the  empty  nurseries;  there  was  no 
little  feet  pattering  to  meet  the  returned  wanderer, 
no  little  voices  to  cry  a  joyous  "Father!"  And  for 
years  the  desolate  mother  had  borne  this  sorrow 
alone. 

As  the  days  passed  on,  Magdalene  regained  her 
strength  slowly,  but  neither  wife  nor  husband  could 
hide  from  each  other  the  fact  that  their  health  was 
broken  by  all  they  had  gone  through.  Herbert's 
constitution  was  sadly  impaired  for  the  remainder 
of  his  life;  he  knew  well  that  he  must  carry  with 
him  the  consequences  of  those  years  of  suffering. 
Often  he  had  to  endure  intense  neuralgic  agony  in 
his  limbs  and  head;  an  unhealed  wound  for  a  long 
time  troubled  him  sorely.  Magdalene  strove  hard 
to  regain  strength,  that  she  might  devote  herself  to 
nurse  him,  but,  though  her  constitution  was  superb, 
she  had  much  to  bear  from  her  disordered  nerves. 
At  times,  the  old  irritability  was  hard  to  vanquish ; 
there  were  still  dark  moods  of  restlessness  when 
her  companionship  was  trying;  but  it  was  now  that 
Herbert  proved  the  nobleness  and  reality  of  his 
repentance. 

For  he  was  ever  gentle  with  her,  however  much 
she  might  try  him.  Some  talk  he  had  had  with  her 
doctor  had  convinced  him  that  she  was  not  to  blame 
for  these  morbid  moods,  that  the  nerves  had  become 
disorganized  by  those  years  of  solitary  misery. 
"We  must  bear  all  our  troubles  together,"  as  he 
often  told  her;  and  so  he  bore  that,  as  he  did  the 


388  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

trial  of  his  children's  loss,  with  grave  fortitude,  and 
a  patience  that  surprised  all  who  knew  him. 

And  he  was  not  without  his  reward,  for,  the  dark 
fit  over,  Magdalene's  smile  would  greet  him,  like 
sunshine  after  a  storm,  and  she  would  thank  him 
with  tears  and  caresses  for  his  forbearance. 

44 1  can't  think  what  makes  me  still  so  horrid, 
when  I  am  so  happy,"  she  said  once  to  him,  when 
the  first  year  of  their  reunion  had  passed.  <4I  do 
my  best  to  fight  against  these  moods,  but  they  seem 
stronger  than  myself  and  overcome  me.  Do  not  be 
so  good  to  me  next  time,  Herbert;  scold  me  and  be 
angry  with  me,  as  you  used  in  the  old  days." 

"I  -can  not,"  he  answered,  smiling.  "I  never 
loved  you  in  the  old  days  as  I  do  now.  I  would  not 
change  my  wife,  in  spite  of  all  the  trouble  she  gives 
.  me,  for  any  other  woman  upon  earth.  You  believe 
this,  love,  do  you  not?"  looking  at  her  beautiful  face 
anxiously,  for  it  had  clouded  a  little  at  his  last 
words. 

44 Yes,  but  I  do  not  like  to  trouble  you:  it  is  that 
which  frets  me.  I  wanted  to  be  a  comfort  to  you, 
'and  never  to  give  you  a  moment's  uneasiness;  but 
I  can  not  help  myself,  somehow.  I  love  you;  I 
don't  believe  you  know  yet  how  I  love  you,  Her- 
.  bert;  but  it  seems  as  if  I  must  grieve  you  some- 
times." 

44Never  mind;  I  will  bear  your  trouble  and  my 
own  too, "  he  answered,  cheerily;  and  in  this  way 
he  always  comforted  her.  But  to  Magdalene  her 
own  self  ever  remained  a  mystery;  the  forces  or  her 
own  nature  were  too  strong  for  her,  and  yet  she  was 
not  a  weak  woman.  She  had  expected  that  in  her 
case  love  and  happiness  would  have  worked  a  mir- 
acle, as  though  miracles  were  ever  affected  by  mere 
human  agencies —that  she  would  rise  like  a  phenix 
from  the  ashes  of  her  past,  reborn,  rejuvenated, 
with  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  moral  strength. 

Now  she  had  Herbert,  all  would  go  smoothly:  she 
v, would  no  longer  mourn  for  her  little  ones.  Since 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  389 

her  husband  was  there  to  comfort  her,  with  his  con- 
stant presence  to  sustain  her,  all  must  be  well; 
never  again  would  she  be  nervous,  irritable,  or  sar- 
castic. Poor  Magdalene!  she  was  creating  heaven 
for  herself  upon  earth;  she  was  borrowing  angels' 
plumes  before  the  time;  she  had  forgotten  the  con- 
ditions of  humanity,  "the  body  of  the  flesh,"  which 
weighed  down  greater  souls  than  hers. 

There  are  Gethsemanes  of  the  spirit  to  the  weary 
ones  of  earth,  hours  of  conflict  that  must  be  lived 
through  and  endured.  Nature  that  groaneth  and 
travaileth  can  not  find  its  abiding-place  of  rest  here. 
To  the  end  of  time  it  seems  to  be  written  in  endur- 
ing characters  that  no  human  lot  shall  be  free  from 
suffering:  sooner  or  later,  more  or  less — that  is  all! 
Magdalene  had  still  to  learn  this  lesson  painfully: 
that  she  was  slow  in  learning  it,  proved  the  strength 
and  obduracy  of  her  will.  True,  she  was  rarely 
sarcastic — never  in  her  husband's  presence,  for  a 
word  or  a  look  from  him  checked  her,  and  she  grew 
humble  and  meek  at  once.  It  was  her  unruly 
nerves  that  baffled  her;  she  was  shocked  to  find  that 
irritable  words  still  rose  to  her  lips;  that  the  spirit 
of  restlessness  was  not  quelled  forever;  thac  thun- 
der still  affrighted  her;  and  that  now  and  then  her 
mind  seemed  clouded  with  fancied  gloom. 

She  once  spoke  of  this  to  Miss  Middleton,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"It  is  so  strange,"  she  said.  "Herbert  is  differ- 
ent, but  I  am  still  so  unchanged  " 

"The  conditions  of  your  health  are  unchanged, 
you  mean,"  answered  Elizabeth,  with  that  quiet 
sympathy  that  always  rested  people  "This  is  the 
mistake  that  folk  make:  they  do  not  distinguish.1 
between  an  unhealthy  mind  and  a  diseased  soul;  the 
one  is  due  to  physical  disorganization,  the  other  to: 
moral  causes.  In  your  case,  dear  Mrs  Cneyne,  one 
may  safely  lay  the  blame  on  the  first  cause. 'r 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so?"  she  asked,  earnestly.  "I 
dare  not  cheat  my  conscience  in  that  may;  it  is  my. < 


390  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

bad  temper,  my  undisciplined  nature,  that  ought  to 
bear  the  blame." 

44 No;  believe  me,"  answered  Elizabeth,  for  they 
had  grown  great  friends  of  late,  "I  have  watched 
you  narrowly,  and  1  know  how  you  try  to  conquer 
this  irritability;  there  is  no  black  spot  of  anger  in 
your  heart,  whatever  words  come  to  your  lips. 
You  are  like  a  fretful  child  sometimes,  I  grant  you 
that,  who  is  ailing  and  unconscious  of  its  ailments. 
When  you  would  be  calm  you  are  strangely  dis- 
turbed ;  you  speak  sharply,  hoping  to  relieve  some- 
thing that  oppresses  you  " 

**Oh,  yes!"  sighed  Magdalene;  **and  yet  Herbert 
never  speaks  crossly  to  me." 

*'He  never  will,  for  he  knows  what  you  suffer. 
Well,  dear  friend,  what  of  this!  This  is  a  cross 
that  you  must  carry  perhaps  all  your  life.  You  are 
not  the  only  one  who  has  to  bear  the  torment  of  dis- 
ordered nerves;  it  must  be  borne  with  resignation, 
as  we  bear  other  troubles.  Once  you  felt  you  could 
not  love  God ;  you  ceased  to  pray  to  Him ;  now  you 
love  Him  a  little.  Go  on  loving;  thank  Him  for 
your  husband's  patience  and  pray  that  you  may 
have  patience,  with  yourself.  One  is  weary  of 
always  living  with  one's  self  I  know  that  well," 
finished  Elizabeth,  with  a  charming  smile. 

Mr.  Drummond  would  have  verified  Miss  Middle- 
ton's  opinion  that  Magdalene  was  not  so  unchanged 
as  she  believed  herself  to  be. 

At  his  first  interview  with  her  after  Herbert 
Cheyne's  return,  he  could  almost  have  sworn  that 
she  was  a  different  woman. 

Phillis,  who  spent  all  her  spare  time  at  the  White 
House — for  they  both  made  much  of  Herbert's 
"good  angel,"  as  he  still  called  her,  jestingly — was 
sitting  alone  with  Mrs.  Cheyne  when  Archie  was 
announced. 

His  old  enemy  greeted  him  with  a  frank  smile. 

"This  is  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Drummond/'  she  said, 
quite  warmly.  "How  I  wish  my  husband  were  not 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  391 

out,  that  I  could  introduce  him  to  you!  I  have  told 
him  how  good  you  have  tried  to  be  to  me,  but  that  I 
was  ungrateful  and  repulsed  you." 

Archie  was  shaking  hands  with  Phillis,  who 
see  med  a  little  disturbed  at  his  entrance.  He  turned 
around  and  regarded  the  beautiful  woman  with 
astonishment  Was  this  really  Mrs.  Cheyne? 
Where  was  the  hard,  proud  droop  of  the  lip,  the 
glance  of  mingled  coolness  and  hauteur,  the  polished 
sarcasm  of  voice  and  manner?  Her  face  looked 
clear  and  open  as  a  child's;  her  eyes  were  brilliant 
with  happiness. 

Magdalene  was  in  one  of  her  brightest  moods 
when  she  was  most  truly  herself. 

"I  have  met  him  just  now.  He  stopped  and 
introduced  himself.  We  had  quite  a  long  talk  out 
side  of  Mrs.  Williams's  cottage.  I  called  upon  him 
there,  you  know,  but  he  had  good  reasons  for  refus- 
ing my  visits.  Mrs.  Cheyne,  you  must  allow  me  to 
congratulate  you  most  earnestly.  You  will  own 
now  that  Providence  has  been  good  to  you." 

44 1  will  own  that  and  everything,"  returned  Mag- 
dalene, joyousl}r.  4tl  will  own,  if  you  like,  that  I 
treated  you  shamefully,  and  took  a  pleasure  in  tor- 
menting you;  and  you  were  so  patient — oh,  so 
patient,  Mr.  Drummond!  I  could  have  called  you 
back  sometimes  and  apologized,  but  I  would  not. 
In  my  bitter  moments  I  felt  it  was  such  a  relief  to 
mock  at  people." 

44 Never  mind  all  that.  Let  by-gones  be  by-gones. 
I  wish  I  could  have  served  you  better."  And  then, 
as  he  changed  the  subject,  and  spoke  feelingly  about 
the  miracle  of  her  husband's  restoration,  Mrs. 
Cheyne  looked  at  him  rather  wistfully. 

44 Oh,  how  good  you  are!"  she  said,  softly.  **Do 
you  know,  the  world  seems  to  me  full  of  good  peo- 
ple now;  and  yet  it  once  appeared  too  bad  a  place 
for  any  one  to  live  in.  We  create  our  own  atmos- 
phere-—at  least  so  Herbert  tells  me.  But  you  are 


392  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

looking  thin,  Mr.  Drummond — thin  and  pale.  You 
must  be  workir  g  too  hard." 

4 'Oh,  as  to  that,  hard  work  never  hurts  any  one," 
he  replied,  carelessly;  but  there  was  something 
forced  in  his  tone. 

Phillis,  who  had  been  sitting  apart  quite  silently, 
raised  her  eyes  involuntarily  from  her  work.  Was 
it  her  fancy,  or  had  some  undefinable  change  passed 
over  him?  They  had  seen  him  so  little  of  late. 
Since  all  this  had  happened  at  the  White  House  he 
had  called  once  or  twice;  and  once  Nan  had  been 
there,  and  he  had  spoken  to  her  much  as  usual.  No 
one  would  have  detected  any  difference  in  his  man- 
ner, except  that  he  was  a  little  grave  and  preoccu- 
pied. Nan  had  not  noticed  anything;  but,  then, 
she  was  singularly  blind  in  such  matters.  Had  she 
not  vaguely  hinted  that  his  visits  were  on  Phillis's 
account?  that  mere  hint  conveying  exquisite  pain  to 
Phillis. 

Now,  as  she  stole  a  glance  at  him,  the  conviction 
was  strong  within  her  that  the  arrow  had  gone  deep. 
He  certainly  looked  a  little  thin  and  care-worn,  and 
something  of  a  young  man's  vigor  and  hopefulness 
seemed  temporarily  impaired.  But,  as  it  happened, 
that  girlish  scutiny  was  not  unperceived  by  Archie. 
In  a  moment  he  was  on  the  alert.  His  eyes  chal- 
lenged her  boldly,  and  it  was  Phillis  who  flushed 
and  looked  conscious. 

It  was  as  though  he  said  to  her,  "Ah!  you  think 
you  know  all  about  it.  But  you  need  not  trouble 
yourself  to  be  sorry  for  me ;  you  do  not  know  what 
a  man's  strength  can  do.  And  I  am  determined  to 
bear  this  by  myself,  and  to  myself;  for  in  silence 
there  is  power." 

It  certainly  seemed  as  though  a  new  strength  had 
come  to  Archie.  He  had  been  a  man  who  was 
prone  to  speak  much  of  his  feelings.  Irritable  and 
sensitive,  he  had  demanded  much  sympathy  from 
his  womankind.  His  was  a  nature  that  craved  sup- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  393 

port  in  his  work ;  but  now,  not  even  to  Grace,  could 
he  speak  of  this  trouble  that  had  befallen  him. 

Was  it  a  trouble,  after  all,  this  vague  shadow  that 
lay  about  his  path?  No  one  but  he  himself  knew 
the  sweetness  and  graciousness  of  the  dream  that 
had  come  to  him.  It  had  only  been  a  dream,  after 
all;  and  now  he  was  awake.  The  vision  he  had 
conjured  up  to  himself  had  faded  into  unreality. 
She  was  not  his  second  self:  never  by  look  or  \vord 
had  he  wooed  her;  she  was  only  the  woman  he  could 
have  loved.  This  was  how  he  put  it;  and  now  he 
would  bury  this  faint  hope  that  was  still-born— that 
had  never  had  breathed  into  it  the  breath  of  life. 
And  if  for  a  little  while  his  future  should  be  cloudy 
and  bereft  of  its  sunshine,  was  he  the  only  one  to 
whom  **some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary?*' 

Phillis's  unspoken  sympathy  drooped  under  this 
stern  repression:  and  yet  in  her  heart  she  rever- 
enced him  all  the  more  for  this  moral  strength — for 
there  is  nothing  a  true  woman  abhors  more  than 
weakness  in  a  man.  After  this  silent  rebuff,  Archie 
took  himself  well  in  hand,  and  began  to  speak  of 
other  things:  he  told  Mrs.  Cheyne,  being  certain 
now  of  her  interest,  of  his  sister's  intended  mar- 
riage, and  how  he  and  Mattie  were  going  down  to 
the  wedding. 

14  He  is  a  very  good  fellow,  this  intended  brother- 
in-law  of  mine — a  sort  of  rough  diamond ;  but  hardly 
good  enough  for  Isabel,"  he  said.  "Oh,  yes,  he  is 
very  rich.  My  poor  little  sister  will  have  her  head 
turned  by  all  her  magnificence;  for  his  parents  are 
so  generous,  they  quite  load  her  with  gifts/'  And 
he  smiled  to  himself  at  the  notion  of  his  little  sister, 
just  fresh  from  her  narrow  school  room  life,  rejoic- 
ing over  her  trousseau  and  her  handsome  house,  and 
driving  away  from  the  church  in  her  own  carriage. 
No  wonder  his  father  and  mother  were  pleased. 
As  for  the  bridegroom-elect,  Archie  spoke  of  him 
with  half-contemptuous  amusement:  "Oh,  he  was 
a  good  fellow — no  one  wished  to  deny  that;"  but 

26  Other  Girls 


394  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

there  was  a  want  of  culture  and  polish  that  grated 
upon  the  susceptibilities  of  the  Oxford  fellow. 

Phillis  listened  wtih  undivided  interest — espe- 
cially when  he  mentioned  Grace. 

"Mattie  and  I  are  in  hope  that  we  shall  bring1  her 
back  with  us;  but,  at  all  events,  my  mother  has 
promised  to  spare  her  at  Christmas."  This  time 
he  addressed  himself  to  Phillis. 

44 Oh,  that  will  be  nice  for  jou!"  she  returned,  a 
little  eagerly.  4tYou  have  told  us  so  much  about 
her  that  I  quite  long  to  know  her. " 

4*I  should  say  you  would  suit  each  other  per- 
fectly," he  replied,  as  he  rose  to  take  his  leave. 
44 Sometimes  you  remind  me  of  her,  Miss  Challoner; 
and  yet  you  are  not  really  alike.  Good-bye,  if  I  do 
not  see  you  again  before  we  go  to  Leeds."  And 
Phillis  gave  him  her  hand  and  a  cordial  smile. 

But  when  he  had  gone  out  of  the  room,  his  hostess 
accompanying  him — for  she  had  a  word  for  his  pri- 
vate ear — Phillis  sat  down  and  thought  over  those 
last  words  with  a  strange  feeling  of  pleasure: 
"Sometimes  you  remind  me  of  her,  Miss  Chal- 
loner.'* Was  it  possible  that  he  could  trace  any 
resemblance  between  her  and  this  dearly  beloved 
sister,  this  Grace,  whom  he  seemed  to  regard  as 
absolute  perfection? 

44 Oh,  I  hope  she  will  come!  I  am  sure  we  shall 
be  such  friends,"  she  said  to  herself:  and  from  this 
time  Phillis  looked  anxiously  for  Grace  Drummond's 
arrival. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

"*A    MAN    HAS    A    RIGHT    TO    HIS    OWN    THOUGHTS." 

There  were  great  rejoicings  in  the  house  in  Low- 
der  Street  on  the  occasion  of  Isabel  Drumnond's 
marriage. 

There  is  always  something  pathetic  in  the  first 
wedding  in  a  family — the  first  severing  of  the  family 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  &*5 

circle — the  first  break — the  first  ingathering  of 
new  interest.  But  when  there  are  small  means, 
and  seven  portionless  daughters,  very  few  of  whom 
can  be  said  to  be  gifted  with  good  looks,  a  wealthy 
son-in-law  must  indeed  be  regarded  as  a  direct 
blessing  from  Providence. 

That  Mr.  Drummond  did  so  regard  it  was  evident 
from  the  jovial  good  humor  that  he  replaced  his 
usual  moody  and  irritable  manner;  while  his  wife's 
beaming  face,  softened  by  maternal  tenderness  for 
the  child  who  would  no  longer  share  the  daily  life 
with  them,  was  a  surprising  spectacle  to  those 
acquainted  with  Mrs.  Drummond's  ordinary  reserve 
and  somewhat  severe  bearing.  But  it  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  on  this  occasion  Mrs.  Drummond 
was  a  happy  woman. 

The  tide  of  fortune,  long  so  adverse  to  their 
interests,  seemed  turning  in  their  favor  at  last. 
Archie  had  done  great  things  for  himself,  and  the 
mother's  eyes  rested  on  him  proudly  as  he  per- 
formed the  marriage  ceremony  for  his  young  sister, 
the  gravity  of  his  priestly  office  setting  him  apart, 
as  it  were,  for  her  reverence  as  well  as  love.  That 
Isabel  had  done  great  things  for  herself  also  could 
not  be  denied.  But  there  were  other  causes  for 
content  in  the  mother's  heart. 

Both  the  boys  were  doing  well.  Clyde  had  been 
articled  to  a  lawyer,  an  old  friend  of  Mr.  Drum- 
mond, and  had  won  golden  opinions  from  his  chief, 
who  pronounced  him  an  intelligent,  likely  lad,  and 
as  sharp  as  a  needle.  Fred  had  lately  obtained  a 
clerkship  in  an  old-established  house  in  Leeds,  and 
was  also  doing,  well,  and  his  salary  was  a  great  boon 
to  the  straitened  household.  Grace,  too,  was  doing 
her  duty  vigorously,  and  no  longer  vexed  her 
mother's  soul  by  her  drooping  looks  or  uncomplain- 
ing discontent — that  silent  protest  of  many,  that  is 
so  irritating  to  the  home-rule.  True,  it  might  be 
only  the  quiescence  of  despair,  but  at  least  she 
veiled  it  decently  under  a  show  of  Spartan  cheer- 


396  JS1OT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

fulness.  The  fox,  of  bitterness  might  gnaw,  but  she 
drew  the  mantle  of  her  pride  closer  round  her.  She 
might  suffer  and  pine,  like  a  prisoned  lark,  in  her 
narrow  cage,  but  at  least  no  one,  not  even  Archie, 
and  least  of  all  her  mother,  should  guess  the  extent 
of  her  sufferings.  So  there  was  peace  in  Lowder 
Street.  A  truce  had  silently  proclaimed  itself 
between  the  two  strong  wills  of  the  household;  and, 
touched  by  a  submission  that  somehow  appealed  to 
her  generosity,  Mrs.  Drummond  was  secretly 
revolving  schemes  for  her  daughter's  future  happi- 
ness. 

44 Mothers  are  mothers,"  as  Nan  had  once  sweetly 
said,  and  Mrs.  Drummond  was  no  exception  to  the 
rule.  She  could  be  hard  to  her  own  flesh  and  blood ; 
she  could  exact  obedience  that  was  difficult  to  yield, 
and  sacrifices  that  cost  tears  in  plenty;  but  she  was 
a  just  woman,  and,  when  the  right  time  came,  she 
knew  how  to  reward  such  obedience. 

But  there  was  still  another  drop  that  filled  the 
maternal  cup  of  content  almost  to  overflowing,  and 
of  this  sh$  spoke  to  Grace,  as  they  were  together  in 
the  mother's  room,  folding  up  the  bridal  finery. 
-The  Jittle  bride  had  just  driven  off,  all  tears  and 
•smiles.  Archie  and  the  boys  had  started  off  for  a 
long  walk.  Mattie-  was  with  her  sisters  in .  the 
smallj "  ugly  inclosure  they  called  a  garden,  and 
Grace  and  her  mother  had  gone  up  to  shake  out  the 
satin  dress  and  lay  it  between  tissue  paper. 

"I  hope  she  will  be  happy,  poor  little  dear!" 
observed  Grace,  touching  tenderly  the  Brussels  lace 
veil;  for  Isabel  had  been  her  first  pupil  and  charge. 
44 1  do  think  and  believe  Ellis  is  really  very  fond  of 
her." 

44 Without  doubt  he  is.  His  manners  were  all 
your  father  and  I  could  wish.  What  a  magnificent 
present,  and  how  thoughtful,  his  bringing  those  dia- 
mond ear-drops  iust  at  the  last  moment!  Isabel 
has  such  pretty  little  enrs.  He  is  as  proud  of  her 
as  he  can  be.  And  really  she  looked  quite  lovely. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  397  •< 

Take  care  how  you  fold  that  veil,  Grace.      It  is  a 
perfect  beauty. ' ' 

4 'Yes,  mother,"  returned  Grace,  meekly. 

She  was  ready  to  drop  with  fatigue,  for  she  had 
been  up  since  six,  and  had  dressed  all  her  sisters 
one  after  another  in  their  pretty  bride-maids' 
dresses,  Mattie's  skill  as  a  lady's-maid  being  dis- 
trusted even  by  Dottie.  But  Mrs.  Drummond  was 
not  satisfied,  and  took  the  lace  out  of  her  hand. 

44And  Grace,  did  you  ever  see  any  one  so  im- 
proved as  Mattie?  Her  visit  to  Hadleigh  is  doing 
wonders  for  her.  Last  evening  I  could  hardly  help 
looking  at  her.  She  holds  herself  so  much  better, 
and  her  dresses  are  so  pretty  and  well  made.  I 
never  knew  before  that  her  figure  was  so  nice." 

44 Yes,    indeed;    she    is   wonderfully   improved,' 
returned  Grace. 

But  she  said  the  words  mechanically.  Her 
mother's  speech  had  touched  a  sore  place  in  her 
memory.  She  knew  who  had  transformed  Mat- 
tie's  dowdiness  into  comeliness  and  neatness.  She 
might  be  an  ordinary  little  woman  in  the  world's 
opinion,  but  in  the  eyes  of  her  family  she  was  quite 
another  Mattie.  Those  tasteful  dresses  had  been 
made  by  those  Challoners,  of  whom  Mattie  spoke 
so  much  and  Archie  so  little. 

Mrs.  Drummond.  who  had  not  noticed  her 
daughter's  sudden  abstraction,  went  on  in  the  same 
satisfied  tone: 

"She  is  not  pretty,  of  course — no  one  could  ever 
call  Mattie  that  at  the  best  of  times — but  now  she 
has  left  off  making  a  fright  of  herself,  and  hunch- 
ing her  shoulders  with  every  word,  she  is  quite 
passable  looking.  I  am  glad  you  talked  her  out  of 
being  a  bride-maid.  She  would  have  looked  ab- 
surd among  the  girls.  But  that  'green  surah"  just 
suited  her.  It  was  good  of  Archie  to  buy  her  Stich '/•' 
a  pretty  dress;  and  yours  that  came ffom'Hadteigh 
was  even  prettier,  and  wonderfully  well ' 
considering  they  had  only  a  pattern  gawn.  '-'•  '•• 


398  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"Yes;  it  fitted  admirably;"  but  Grace  spoke  with- 
out enthusiasm. 

Archie,  who  knew  her  tastes,  had  chosen  a  soft, 
creamy  stuff,  which  he  informed  Mattie  must  be 
trimmed  with  no  end  of  lace.  Phillis  had  received 
and  executed  the  order  with  such  skill  and  discern- 
ment that  a  most  ravishing  costume  had  been  pro- 
duced. But  Grace,  who  had  her  own  ideas  on  the 
subject  of  those  "Challoner  girls/'  had  received  the 
gift  somewhat  coldly,  and  had  even  seemed  dis- 
pleased when  her  father  pinched  her  ear  and  told 
her  that  Archie's  gown  had  transformed  her  into  a 
princess  fit  for  a  fairy  tale.  "And  there  is  always 
a  prince  in  that,  my  dear — eh,  Grade,"  continued 
the  lucky  father,  who  could  afford  to  laugh  when 
one  of  the  seven  daughters  had  got  a  husband.  But 
Grace  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  jest.  She 
even  got  up  a  little  frown,  like  her  mother's  on 
similar  occasions. 

"Archie  is  so  generous,  dear  old  fellow,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Drummond,  breaking  out  afresh  after 
a  minute's  interval,  as  she  skillfully  manipulated 
the  veil.  "That  is  what  I  always  say.  There 
never  was  such  a  son  or  brother.  Do  you  think  he 
is  overworking  himself,  Grace,  or  that  Mattie  really 
looks  after  him  well?  But  he  strikes  me  as  a  little 
thin — and — yes — perhaps  a  little  grave." 

Grace's  lips  closed  with  an  expression  of  pain. 
But  her  mother  was  looking  at  her  and  she  must 
answer. 

"Well,  if  you  ask  me,  mother,"  she  returned,  a 
little  huskily,  "I  do  not  think  Archie  looks  very 
well,  or  in  his  usual  spirits;  but  I  am  sure  Mattie 
takes  good  care  of  him,"  she  continued,  with  care- 
ful veracity. 

"Humph 5  I  am  sorry  to  find  you  indorsing  my 
opinion,'.'  replied  Mrs.  Drummond,  thoughtfully. 
"I  hoped  you  woulcl  say  it  was  my  fancy.  He  -has 
not  said  anything  to  you  that  makes  you  uneasy?" 
a  toucbjof  bsr  ol<3  sharpness,  remembering  tbat 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  399 

Grace,  and  not  she,  was  Archie's  confidante;  but 
Grace  replied  so  quickly  and  decidedly,  "Oh,  no, 
mother;  we  have  not  exchanged  a  word  together 
since  he  and  Mattie  arrived,"  that  her  maternal 
jealousy  was  allayed. 

But  the  next  night,  when  she  was  alone  with  him 
for  a  few  minutes,  she  was  struck  afresh  by  the 
gravity  of  his  look  as  he  sat  by  the  window,  pre- 
tending to  read,  but  for  the  last  half  hour  he  had 
not  turned  his  page. 

"A  penny  for  your  thoughts,  my  son!"  she  said, 
so  archly  and  abruptly  that  Archie  started,  and 
his  brow  grew  crimson  at  finding  himself  watched. 

"Oh,  they  were  nothing  particular,"  he  stam- 
mered, and  then  he  said  something  about  the  fine- 
ness of  the  evening,  and  the  possibility  of  his  father 
coming  in  in  time  for  a  long  walk. 

But  Mrs.  Drummond  was  not  to  be  put  off  so 
easily.  She  left  her  seat,  where  she  had  been  sew- 
ing, as  usual,  and  came  and  stood  beside  him  a  mo- 
ment. He  would  have  jumped  up  and  given  her 
his  own  chair,  but  she  pressed  his  shoulder  gently 
as  though  to  forbid  the  movement. 

"I  like  to  stand,  Archie.  Yes,  it  is  a  lovely  even- 
ing; but  I  think  you  ought  to  ask  Grace,  and  not 
your  father,  to  accompany  you.  Grace  was  always 
your  companion,  you  know,  and  you  must  not  drop 
old  habits  too  suddenly."  Then  Archie  saw  that 
his  avoidance  of  Grace  had  been  marked. 

"Very  well,  I  will  ask  her,"  he  returned;  but  he 
showed  none  of  his  old  alacrity  and  spirit  in  claim- 
ing his  favorite. 

Mrs.  Drummond  noticed  this,  and  the  shade  of 
anxiety  on  her  face  grew  deeper. 

"Archie,  you  are  not  quite  your  old  self  with 
Grace,  and  I  am  sure  she  feels  it.  What  has  come 
between  you,  my  dear?" 

"Why,  nothing,  mother;"  and  here  he  attempted 
a    laugh.      "C^ace    and   I  never  quarrel,   as 
know," 


400  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.    - 

11 1  was  not  speaking  of  quarreling,"  she  returned, 
in  a  graver  voice;  "but  you  do  not  seek  her  out  as 
you  used.  Before,  when  you  arrived,  you  always 
disappointed  me  by  shutting  yourself  up  in  the 
school-room,  where  no  one  could  get  at  you;  and 
now  Grace  tells  me  she  has  not  had  a  word  with 
you  these  four  days." 

"Has  Grace  complained  of  me,  then?" 

"You  know  Grace  never  complains  of  you.  It 
was  not  said  in  any  fault-finding  way.  We  agreed 
you  were  not  quite  yourself,  or  in  your  usual 
spirits,  and  1  asked  her  the  reason.  Tell  me,  my 
son,  is  there  anything  troubling  you?"  Archie  sat 
silent.  Mrs.  Drummond  was  so  rarely  demonstra- 
tive to  her  children  that  even  this  well-beloved  son 
had  never  heard  before  such  chords  of  tenderness 
in  his  mother's  voice ;  and,  looking  up,  he  saw  that 
her  keen  gray  eyes  were  softened  and  moist  with 
tears.  "You  are  not  quite  yourself,  Archie — not 
quite  happy?"  she  went  on. 

Then  he  took  counsel  with  himself,  and  after  a 
moment  he  answered  her: 

"No,  mother;  you  are  right.  I  am  not  —  not 
quite  myself,  nor  quite  happy;  but  I  mean  to  be 
both  presently."  And  then  he  looked  up  in  her 
face  pleadingly,  with  an  expression  of  entreaty  that 
went  to  her  heart,  and  continued:  "But  my  own 
mother  will  not  pain  me  by  unnecessary  questions 
that  1  can  not  answer."  And  then  she  knew  that 
his  will  was'that  she  should  be  silent. 

"Very  well,"  she  returned,  with  a  sigh.  "But 
you  will  tell  me  one  thing,  will  you  not,  my  dear? 
Is  it — is  it  quite  hopeless?"  her  mother's  instinct, 
like  that  of  the  Eastern  Caliph,  immediately  sug- 
gesting a  woman  in  the  case. 

"Quite — quite  hopeless — as  dead  as  this!"  bring- 
ing down  his  hand  on  a  large  defunct  moth.  "Talk- 
ing will  not  bring  to  life,  or  help  a  man  to  carry  a 
real  burden." 

Then,  as  she  kissed  him,  she  knew  that  his  pain 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  401 

had  been  very  great,  but  that  he  meant  to  bear  it 
with  all  the  strength  he  could  bring. 

Grace  went  up  to  prepare  for  her  walk  that  even- 
ing with  no  very  pleasurable  anticipations.  Her 
mother  had  given  her  Archie's  message  in  due 
-form,  as  she  sat  somewhat  sadly  by  the  school-room 
window,  mending  a  frock  Dottie  had  just  torn. 

44 Archie  wants  you  to  go  out  with  him,  Grace," 
Mrs.  Drummond  said  as  she  came  in,  in  her  usual 
active,  bustling  way.  "The  grass  never  grew 
under  her  feet,"  as  she  was  often  pleased  to  ob- 
serve. "Loitering  and  lagging  make  young  bones 
grow  prematurely  old/'  she  would  say,  coining  a 
new  proverb  for  the  benefit  of  lazy  Susie.  "Never 
measure  your  footsteps  when  you  are  about  other 
people's  business,"  she  would  say  to  Laura,  who 
hated  to  be  hunted  up  from  her  employment  for 
any  errand.  "He  thinks  of  going  over  to  Black- 
thorn Farm,  as  it  is  so  fine;  and  the  walk  will  do 
you  good,"  continued  Mrs.  Drummond,  with  a  keen 
look  at  her  daughter's  pale  face.  "Give  me  Dottle's 
frock;  that  little  monkey  is  always  getting  into 
mischief."  But  Grace  yielded  her  task  reluctantly. 

"Are  you  sure  he  wishes  me  to  go,  mother?" 

"Quite  sure,"  was  the  brief  answer,-  but  she 
added  no  more. 

Silence  was  ever  golden  to  this  busy,  hard-work- 
ing mother.  She  was  generally  sparing  of  words. 
Grace,  who  saw  that  her  mother  was  bent  on  her 
going,  made  no  further  demur;  but,  as  she  put  on 
her  walking  things,  she  told  herself  that  Archie 
was  only  making  a  virtue  of  necessity.  He  was  so 
little  eager  for  her  society  that  he  had  not  sought 
her  himself,  but  had  sent  her  a  message.  Ever 
since  his  return,  no  light-springing  footsteps  had 
been  heard  on  the  uncarpeted  stairs  leading  to  the 
school-room.  He  had  forsaken  their  old  haunt 
where  they  had  once  talked  so  happily,  sitting  hand 
in  hand  in  the  old  window-seat. 

Grace    felt    herself  grievously    wounded-      For 


402  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

months  a  barrier  had  been  between  her  and  Archie. 
He  had  written  seldom  and  his  letters,  when  they 
came,  told  her  nothing.  In  manner  he  was  kindness 
itself.  That  there  was  no  change  in  his  affection 
was  evident,'  but  the  key  to  his  confidence  was  mis- 
laid. He  had  withdrawn  himself  into  some  inner 
citadel,  where  he  seemed  all  at  once  inaccessible, 
and  her  sisterly  soul  was  vexed  within  her. 

He  met  her  at  the  door  with  his  usual  smile  of 
welcome. 

"That  is  right,  Grace;  you  have  not  kept  me  long 
waiting,"  he  said,  pleasantly,  as  she  came  toward 
him ;  and  then,  as  they  walked  down  Lowder  Street, 
he  commenced  talking  at  once.  He  had  so  much 
to  tell  her,  he  said;  and  here  Grace's  pulses  began 
to  throb  expectantly;  but  the  eager  light  died  out 
<of  her  face  when  he  went  on  to  retail  a  long  conver 
jation  he  had  had  with  his  mother  the  previous 
night  Was  that  all?  she  thought.  Was  the  longed- 
for  confidence  to  be  withheld? 

Archie  did  not  seem  to  notice  her  silence:  he 
rattled  on  volubly. 

"I  think  we  were  hard  on  the  mother.  Gracie,  you 
and  I,"  he  said.  "Atter  all,  1  believe  she  was 
right  in  not  giving  us  our  own  way  in  the  spring." 

" I  am  glad  you  think  so,"  replied  Grace,  coldly. 
Archie  winced  at  her  tone,  but  recovered  himself 
and  went  on  gayly: 

"It  does  one  good  sometimes  to  have  one's  wishes 
crossed;  and,  after  all,  it  was  only  fair  that  poor 
Mnttie,  being  the  eldest,  should  have  her  turn.  She 
d«>es  her  best,  poor  little  soul  and,  though  I  find 
I'-er  terribly  trying  sometimes,  I  can  hold  out  pretty 
patiently  until  Christmas;  and  then  mother  herself 
suggested  that  you  should  take  her  place  at  the 
vicarage. " 

"I!  Oh,  no,  Archie!"  And  here  the  color 
flushed  over  Grace's  face,  and  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  The  news  was  so  unexpected — so  overwhelm- 
ing. Another  time  the  sweetness  of  it  would  have 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  403 

filled  her  with  rapture.  But  now!  "Oh,  no,  no!" 
she  cried,  in  so  vehement  a  tone  that  her  brother 
turned  in  surprise,  and  something  of  her  meaning 
came  home  to  him. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  said,  deprecatingly.  "I 
have  not  finished  yet  what  I  wanted  to  say.  Mother 
said  Mattie  was  greatly  improved  by  her  visit,  and 
that  she  was  infinitely  obliged  to  me  for  yielding  to 
her  wish.  She  told  me  plainly  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  have  spared  you  before — that  you  were  her 
right  hand  with  the  girls,  and  that  even  now  your 
loss  would  be  great." 

"I  do  not  mean  to  leave  mother,"  returned  Grace, 
in  a  choked  voice. 

"Not  if  I  want  you  and  ask  you  to  come?"  he 
replied,  with  reproachful  tenderness.  "Why, 
Grace,  what  has  become  of  our  old  compact?" 

"You  do  not  need  me  now,"  she  faltered,  hardly 
able  to  speak  without  weeping. 

"We  will  talk  of  that  by  and  by,"  was  the  some- 
what impatient  answer.  "Just  at  this  minute  I 
want  to  tell  you  all  the  mother  said  on  the  subject. 
Facts  before  feelings,  please,"  with  a  touch  of  sar- 
casm, but  he  pointed  it  with  a  smile.  "You  see, 
Grace,  Isabel's  marriage  makes  a  difference.  There 
is  one  girl  off  my  father's  hands.  And  then  the 
boys  are  doing  so  well.  Mother  thinks  that  in 
another  three  months  Clara  may  leave  the  school- 
room: she  will  be  seventeen  then,  and,  as  Ellis  has 
promised  her  a  course  of  music-lessons,  to  develop 
her  one  talent,  you  may  consider  her  off  your 
hands  " 

"Clara  will  never  do  me  credit,"  returned  his 
sister,  mournfully;  "she  works  steadily  and  takes 
pains,  but  she  was  never  as  clever  as  Isabel  " 

"No;  she  is  no  shining  light,  as  mother  owns; 
but  she  will  play  beautifully,  if  she  be  properly 
trained.  Well,  as  to  the  other  girls,  it  appears  that 
my  father  has  decided  to  accept  my  offer  of  send- 
ing Susie  to  a  first-class  boarding- school;  and,  as  he 


'404  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

has  determined  to  do  the  same  for  Laura,  there  is 
only  Dottie  for  Mattie  to  manage  or  mismanage. 
So  you  see,  Grade,  your  school-room  drudgery  is 
over.  Mother  herself,  by  her  own  will,  has  opened 
the  prison  doors." 

He  spoke  in  a  light,  jesting  tone,  but  Grace  an- 
swered, almost  passionately: 

44 1  tell  j'ou  no,  Archie!  I  no  longer  wish  it  so; 
it  is  too  late:  things  are  now  quite  different." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  returned,  with  a  long, 
steady  look  that  seemed  to  draw  out  her  words  in 
spite  of  her  resolve  not  to  speak  them. 

"I  mean  that  things  are  changed — that  you  no 
longer  need  me,  or  wish  me  to  live  with  you." 

44I  need  you  more,,"  he  returned,  calmly;  44per- 
haps  I  have  never  needed  you  so  much.  As  for 
living  with  me,  is  it  your  desire  to  condemn  me  to 
an  existence  of  perfect  loneliness?  for  after  Christ- 
mas Mattie  leaves  me.  You  are  mysterious,  Grace; 
you  are  not  your  old  self." 

"Oh,  it  is  you  that  are  not  yourself!"  she  re- 
torted, in  a  tone  of  grief.  "Why  have  you  avoided 
me?  why  do  you  withhold  your  confidence?  why  do 
your  letters  tell  me  nothing?  and  then  you  come 
and  are  still  silent." 

44 What  is  it  that  you  would  have  me  tell  you?"  he 
asked;  but  this  time  he  did  not  look  her  in  the 
face. 

44 1  would  know  this  thing  that  has  come  between 
us  and  robbed  me  of  your  confidence.  You  are  ill 
at  ease;  you  are  unhappy,  Archie.  You  have  never 
kept  a  trouble  from  me  before:  it  was  always  I 
who  shared  your  hopes  and  fears." 

44  You  may  still  share  them.  I  am  not  changed, 
as  you  imagine,  Grace.  All  that  I  can  tell  you  1 
will,  even  if  you  demand  it  in  that  4money-or-your- 
life*  style,  as  you  are  doing  now,"  trying  to  turn  it 
off  with  a  jest. 

440h,  Archie!" 

"Well,  what  of  Archie,  now?" 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  405 

"That  you  should  laugh  away  my  words!  you 
have  never  done  that  before." 

"Very  well,  I  will  be  serious;  nay,  more,  I  will 
be  solemn.  Grace,  I  forbid  you  ever  to  mention 
this  again,  on  pain  of  my  bitter  displeasure!'* 

Then,  as  she  looked  at  him,  too  much  startled  to 
answer,  he  went  on: 

"A  man  has  a  right  to  his  own  thoughts,  if  he. 
choose  to  keep  them  to  himself  and  his  Maker. 
There  are  some  things  with  which  even  you  may 
not  meddle,  Grace.  What  if  my  life  holds  a  grief 
which  I  would  bury  from  all  eyes  but  my  own, 
would  you  tear  up  the  clods  with  unhallowed 
fingers?  To  no  living  person  but  my  Saviour" — 
and  here  Archie  looked  up  with  reverent  eyes — 
"will  I  speak  of  this  thing."  Then  she  clung  to 
his  arm,  and  tears  flowed  over  her  cheeks. 

"Oh,  Archie,  forgive  me!  forgive  me!  I  never 
meant  to  hurt  you  like  this;  I  will  not  say  another 
word ! ' ' 

"You  have  not  hurt  me,"  he  returned,  striving 
after  his  old  manner,  "except  in  refusing  to  live 
with  me.  I  am  lonely  enough,  God  knows!  and  a 
sister  who  understands  me,  and  with  whom  I  could 
have  sympathy,  would  be  a  great  boon." 

"Then  I  will  come,"  she  replied,  drying  her 
eyes.  "If  you  want  me,  1  will  come,  Archie." 

"I  do  want  you;  and  I  have  never  told  anything 
but  the  truth.  But  you  must  come  and  be  happy, 
my  dear.  I  want  you,  yourself,  and  not  a  grave, 
reticent  creature  who  has  gone  about  the  house  the 
last  few  days,  looking  at  me  askance,  as  though  I 
had  committed  some  deadly  sin.  " 

Then  the  dimple  showed  itself  in  Grace's  cheek. 

"Have  I  really  been  so  naughty,  Archie?" 

"Yes,  you  have  been  a  very  shadowy  sort  of 
Grace;  but  I  give  you  full  absolution,  only  don't 
do  it  any  more."  And  as  she  looked  at  him,  with 
her  eyes  full  of  sorrowful  yearning,  he  went  on, 
hastily:  "Oh,  I  am  all  right,  and  least  said  is 


406  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

soonest  mended.  I  am  like  the  dog  in  JEsop's  fable, 
who  mistook  the  shadow  for  the  substance.  A  poor 
sort  of  dog,  that  fellow.  Well,  is  your  poor  little 
mind  at  rest,*  Grace?"  And  the  tone  in  which  she 
said  "Yes"  seemed  to  satisfy  him,  for  he  turned 
their  talk  into  another  channel. 

When  Mrs.  Drummond  saw  her  daughter's  face 
that  evening,  she  knew  the  cloud  had  passed  be- 
tween the  brother  and  sister. 

Grace  followed  her  to  her  room  that  night — a 
thing  she  had  not  done  for  months. 

"Mother,  I  must  thank  you  for  being  so  good  to 
us,"  she  began,  impulsively,  as  soon  as  she  had 
crossed  the  threshold. 

"How  have  I  been  good  to  you,  Grace?"  observed 
her  mother,  calmly,  as  she  unfastened  her  brooch. 
"Of  course,  I  have  always  tried  to  be  good  to  my 
children,  although  they  do  not  seem  to  think  so." 

"Ah,  but  this  is  very  special  goodness,  and  I  am 
more  grateful  than  I  can  say.  Are  you  sure  you 
will  be  able  to  spare  me,  mother?" 

"After  Christmas?  oh,  yes:  things  will  be  possible 
then.  If  I  remember  rightly,  I  had  to  endure 
some  very  bitter  words  from  you  on  this  very  sub- 
ject I  hope  you  will  do  justice  to  my  judgment  at 
that  time." 

"Yes,  mother,"  with  downcast  eyes.  "I  am 
afraid  Archie  and  I  were  very  willful." 

"You  were  willful,  Grace,"  for  Mrs.  Drummond 
never  suffered  any  one  to  find  fault  with  her  son  in 
her  hearing — "you  who  ought  to  have  known  bet- 
ter. And  yet  I  do  believe  that,  but  for  my  deter- 
mination to  enforce  the  right  thing,  you  would  have 
left  your  post,  and  all  your  duties,  because  Archie 
wanted  you." 

"I  was  wrong.     I  see  that  plainly." 

"Yes,  you  were  wrong:  for  a  long  time  you 
bore  yourself  t^-  "  m^  as  no  daughter  ought  to 
bear  herselr  to  iici  m  ther.  You  angered  me  sorely, 
Grace,  because  I  saw  you  were  hardening  yourself 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  407 

against  me,  only  because  I  insisted  that  no  child  of 
mine  should  neglect  her  duty." 

"Mother,  surely  I  am  humbling- myself  now." 

"True;  but  how  long  have  I  waited  for  this  con- 
fession? Night  after  night  I  have  said  to  myself, 
Purely  Grace  will  come  and  tell  me  that  she  feels 
herself  in  the  wrong!'  But  no  such  words  came. 
At  last  I  ceased  to  hope  for  them;  and  now  at  this 
eleventh  hour  you  can  hardly  expect  me  to  show 
much  joy  at  hearing  them  spoken." 

Then  Grace's  head  drooped,  and  she  was  silent. 
She  knew  she  deserved  all  these  hard  words,  bitter 
as  they  were  to  bear;  but  Mrs.  Drummond  had  said 
her  say. 

"Well,  well,  better  late  than  never;  and  we  will 
say  no  more  about  it.  Next  time  you  will  under- 
stand me  better,  Grace." 

Then,  as  her  mother  kissed  her,  Grace  knew  that 
her  sin  was  condoned.  Nevertheless,  as  she  left 
the  room  a  few  minutes  later,  her  heart  was  not 
quite  so  light  in  her  bosom;  she  felt  that  her 
mother  had  been  just,  but  hardly  generous. 

"I  thought  mothers  forgave  more  easily,"  she 
said  to  herself,  in  a  somewhat  aggrieved  fashion. 
She  had  no  idea  that  her  mother  was  equally  disap- 
pointed. 

Mrs.  Drummond  was  a  hard,  but  not  an  unloving 
woman ;  and  she  would  have  liked  more  demonstra- 
tion from  her  daughters.  If  Grace,  for  example, 
instead  of  all  those  words,  had  thrown  herself  into 
her  arms  and  owned  herself  in  the  wrong,  with  a 
child-like  pleading  for  forgiveness,  Mrs.  Drummond 
would  have  felt  herself  satisfied,  and  would  have 
pressed  her  to  her  bosom  with  a  loving  word  or  two 
that  Grace  would  have  remembered  when  her 
mother  was  in  her  grave.  But  such  outward  forms 
of  tenderness  were  not  possible  to  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond's  daughters;  for  in  such  matters  we  must 
reap  as  we  sow;  and  Mrs.  Drummond's  manner 
hardly  merited  softness.  For  there  are  mothers 


408  NOT  LIKE  OT&ER  GIRLS. 

and  mothers;  and  the  world  must  produce  its 
Drummonds  and  its  Challoners  until  the  end  of 
time. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

§ 

ABOUT    NOTHING    PARTICULAR. 

It  was  as  well  that  Grace  had  had  this  talk  with 
her  brother;  for,  during  the  two  days  that  remained 
of  his  brief  visit,  they  were  not  alone  together  until 
the  last  half  hour  before  his  departure.  The  young 
vicar  had  to  return  for  his  Sunday  duties;  but  Mat- 
tie  remained  behind  for  another  week.  Archie, 
indeed,  had.  once  sought  her  in  his  old  fashion — 
running  up  to  the  school-room  for  a  chat;  but  Susie 
had  been  there  all  the  time.  In  former  days,  Archie 
would  have  sent  her  away  with  blunt  peremptori- 
ness,  but  now  he  seemed  well  content  to  have  her 
there.  He  had  no  secrets  to  discuss,  as  he  sat  in  his 
old  place  in  the  window-seat;  yet  Grace  was  too 
happy  to  see  him  there  to  find  fault  with  his  dis- 
course. 

But  on  the  morning  of  his  departure  she  had 
come  down  early  to  pour  out  his  coffee.  He  had 
bidden  his  mother  good-bye  in  her  room;  but  he 
knew  that,  in  spite  of  the  earliness  of  the  hour, 
Grace  would  be  in  her  place  to  minister  to  his 
wants. 

14  Well,  Grace,"  he  said,  entering  with  his  travel- 
ing-plaid  over  his  arm,  "so  it  is  to  be  good-bye 
until  Christmas?" 

44 Yes,"  she  returned,  looking  at  him  with  a  sort 
of  wistfulness;  "but  the  time  will  pass  quickly  now. 
It  is  so  nice  to  think  that  we  shall  begin  our  new  year 
together."  And,  as  her  brother  checked  an  invol- 
untary sigh,  she  went  on  eagerly:  "If  you  knew 
how  happy  1  am  about  it!  It  will  be  something  to 
wake  every  morning  and  know  you  are  not  a  hun- 
dred miles  off — that  when  I  come  down  to  break 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  409 

j.ast  I  shall  find  you  there — that  I  shall  be  able  to 
talk  to  you  as  much  as  I  like;  and  as  for  work,  it 
will  be  play  to  me  to  work  for  you,  Archie." 

*' Of  course   I  know  that,"  rather  mischievously. 

"I  would  work  for  you  like  a  servant ;  would  1 
not,  dear?  I  mean  to  be  ever  so  good  to  you.  Your 
friends  shall  be  my  friends;  your  likes  and  dislikes 
shall  be  mine,  too." 

44  Why,  Grade,"  he  said,  humoring  her,  44this  ib 
more  than  a  wife  would  do  for  me!" 

44 Ah!  but  it  is  not  too  much  to  ask  from  a 
sister,"  she  returned,  earnestly.  44When  you  bring 
home  your  wife,  Archie,  I  mean  to  be  good  to  her, 
too.  I  shall  have  to  leave  you  then,  and  come  back 
here,  but  if  you  are  happy  I  shall  not  be  miserable." 
But  he  interrupted  her  a  little  impatiently. 

44Whrt  put  such  nonsense  into  your  head?  I  shall 
never  marry.  We  shall  beta  pattern  of  old-bach- 
elor brother  and  maiden  sister."  And  then  he 
pushed  away  his  plate  and  went  to  the  window. 
44 Is  it  not  Mrs.  Carlyle  who  quotes  that  quaint  old 
story  about  some  one  who  always  thanked  God  'for 
the  blessings  that  passed  over  his  or  her  head?'  Is 
not  that  a  curious  idea,  when  one  cornes  to  think  it 
out?  Fancy  thanking  Heaven  really  and  seriously 
for  all  our  disappointed  hopes  and  plans — for  4the 
blessings  that  go  over  our  heads!'  It  would  be  a 
new  clause  in  our  petitions — eh,  Gracie?" 

44 Why,  yes,"  she  replied,  as  she  came  and  stood 
near  him.  4*I  am  afraid  I  could  never  say  that 
from  my  heart." 

44It  is  not  easy,"  he  returned,  quietly;  **but  I  do 
not  know  thai  we  ought  to  give  up  trying,  for  all 
that."  And  then  his  manner  changed,  and  he  put 
his  arm  round  her  in  his  old  fashion.  44Recollect, 
I  want  you  very  much,  Grace;  your  coming  will 
make  me  far  happier.  Mattie  only  touches  the 
outside  of  things;  I  want  some  one  near  me  who 
can  go  deeper  than  that — who  will  help  me  with 
real  work,  and  put  up  with  my  bad  humors;  for  I 


410  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

am  a  man  who  is  very  liable  to  discouragement. f> 
And  when  he  had  said  this  he  bade  her  good-bye. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  Archie  to  find  himself  hard  at 
work  again  The  few  days  of  idleness  had  been 
irksome  to  him.  Now  he  could  throw  himself  with- 
out stint  or  limit  into  his  pastoral  labors,  walking 
miles  of  country  road  until  he  was  weary,  and 
planning  new  outlets  for  the  feverish  activity  that 
seemed  to  stimulate  him  to  fresh  efforts. 

People  began  to  talk  of  the  young  vicar.  His  ser- 
mons were  changed,  somehow.  There  was  more  in 
them —  "less  of  the  husk  and  more  of  the  kernel," 
as  Miss  Middleton  once  remarked  rather  pithily. 

They  were  wonderfully  brief  discourses;  but, 
whereas  they  had  once  been  elegant  and  somewhat 
scholarly  producti6ns,  they  were  now  earnest  and 
even  pungent.  If  the  sentences  were  less  carefully 
compiled,  more  rough-hewn  and  deficient  in  pol- 
ish, there  was  matter  in  them  that  roused  people 
and  made  them  think. 

"I  never  could  remember  Mr.  Drummond's  ser- 
mons before,"  Dulce  once  observed,  "but  now  1 
can  recollect  whole  sentences  quite  nicely." 

Phillis,  to  whom  she  spoke,  assented  by  a  nod. 
If  she  had  chosen,  she  could  have  admitted  the  fact 
that  she  could  remember  not  sentences,  but  the 
entire  sermon  itself.  In  secret  she  marveled  also 
at  the  change. 

"He  is  more  earnest,"  she  would  say  to  herself. 
"He  preaches  now,  not  from  the  outside,  but 
from  the  inside  of  things — from  his  own  experience, 
not  from  other  people's.  That  makes  the  differ- 
ence." 

And  to  Nan?  who  was  her  other  conscience,  she 
said  one  day,  when  they  were  discussing  this  subject: 

"I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  sermons 
lately.  I  wish  I  could  publish  the  result  of  my 
cogitation.  I  feel  inclined  to  write  a  pamphlet  and 
entitle  it  Hints  to  the  Clergy,'  I  think  it  would 
take  vastly." 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  411 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon,  and  they  were  sitting 
together  on  their  favorite  bowlder.  Phillis  had 
christened  it  her  ** thinking- stone. " 

44 1  never  think  to  more  purpose  than  when  I  am 
sitting  here/'  she  would  say. 

Nan,  who  was  looking  out  to  sea  rather  dreamily, 
intent  on  her  usual  vision,  Dick,  roused  herself  at 
this,  and  began  to  smile  in  a  lofty  way. 

14  You  think  yourself  very  clever,  Phillis,  and  so 
do  I;  but  sermons  are  hardly  in  your  province,  my 
dear." 

Phillis  shook  her  head  gravely.  She  dissented 
from  this  view  of  the  case. 

''Common  sense  is  in  every  one's  province,"  she 
persisted.  44I  am  a  practical  woman,  and  some  of 
my  hints  would  be  valuable.  Sermons  are  failures, 
Nan.  They  go  over  people's  heads  like  a  flight  of 
badly  shot  arrows.  Does  not  Gouldburn  say  that? 
Now  and  then  one  touches  the  mark.  When  they 
are  all  let  fly  thither  and  anyhow,  the  preacher 
shuts  up  his  book  and  his  hearers  cease  to  yawn." 

4*Oh,  Phillis,  how  absurd  you  are!  Suppose  Mr. 
Drummond  were  to  hear  you?" 

44I  should  have  no  objection.  But,  Nan,  seriously, 
do  you  not  notice  how  formal  and  cut-and-dried 
most  sermons  are?  They  come  round  regularly,  like 
Sunday.  People  have  to  bear  being  preached  at, 
and  so  the  unfortunate  parson  must  hammer  it  out 
of  his  head  somehow.  He  picks  out  his  text,  writes 
out  his  composition,  drags  in  his  learning  by  the 
ear,  and  delivers  it  in  his  best  fashion,  and  people 
listen  to  it  politely,  and  the  best-behaved  do  not 
yawn." 

4 'Phillis,  you  are  positively  irreverent!  I  am 
shocked  at  you!" 

44 On  the  contrary,  I  am  very  reverent.  Well,  in 
my  'Hints  to  the  Clergy/  I  would  say,  first,  *  Never 
preach  what  you  do  not  feel  yourself,  or  the  current 
of  electricity  or  sympathy,  or  whatever  it  is  that 
communicates  between  preacher  and  people,  will  be 


41-2  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

checked  or  impeded.  Do  not  preach  out  of  the 
Book ;  we  can  read  that  for  ourselves.  Preach  out 
of  your  own  head  and  your  own  experience,  just 
as  much  as  you  can.'  Bless  you,"  continued  Phillis, 
in  a  wise,  half-sad  tone,  "half  the  pulpits  would  be 
empty;  we  should  get  sometimes  no  sermon  at  all!" 

This  was  too  much  for  Nan's  simplicity. 

"But  people  would  be  so  disappointed,"  she 
observed,  plaintively.  "All  the  middle-aged  people 
like  sermons. " 

"It  would  not  hurt  them  to  be  disappointed  some- 
times. They  would  appreciate  the  real  thing  all 
the  more  when  it  came.  It  is  as  well  to  go  without 
food  altogether  as  to  be  fed  on  husks.  After  all, 
people  forget  that  they  come  to  church  to  say  their 
prayers  all  together,  and  sing  glorias." 

"That  is  very  nicely  said,  dear,"  was  Nan's 
admiring  comment  on  this. 

But  Phillis  waved  aside  the  praise.  She  was 
quite  in  earnest. 

"But  if  I  were  speaking  to  one  of  these  real  and 
not  make-believe  preachers,  I  would  say  to  him, 
4  Never  be  discouraged.  Say  what  you  have  got  to 
say;  if  you  really  feel  it  and  mean  it,  some  one  will 
feel  it,  too  You  can't  see  into  people's  hearts; 
and  a  good  thing,  too,  my  friend.*  But  'the  arrows 
at  the  venture'  may  tell;  some  one  may  be  *  hit  be- 
tween the  joints  of  the  armor.'  There,  come  along; 
you  shall  have  more  of  my  hints  another  time.  I 
have  said  my  say  for  the  present."  And  Phillis 
rose  from  the  bowlder,  with  her  bright  eyes  kindled 
by  some  moving  thought,  and  went  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  water,  and  watched  a  sea-gull  dipping 
toward  the  shore  in  the  midst  of  the  windy  lights; 
while  Nan,  marveling  at  her  sister's  unusual  earn- 
estness, followed  more  closely. 

The  Challoners  were  holding  up  their  heads  in 
the  place  now.  There  was  no  denying  that.  By 
the  people  at  the  vicarage  and  the  White  House 
they  were  owned  and  regarded  as  equals.  Mrs. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  413 

Cheyne  made  no  Secret  of  her  affection  for  Phillis ; 
and  she  was  full  of  kindness  also  to  Nan  and  Dulce. 
It  was  their  own  fault  if  they  declined  her  frequent 
invitations.  But  there  was  one  person  who  refused 
to  hold  out  the  hand  of  amity  to  the  eccentric  new- 
comers. 

Colonel  Middleton  still  shook  his  white  head,  and 
delivered  his  protest  into  his  daughter's  ear.  Eliz- 
abeth declared,  laughingly,  "that  the  Challoner  girls 
were  to  her  father  what  a  red  rag  is  to  a  bull."  He 
never  met  one  of  them  without  coming  home  and 
relieving  his  mind,  as  he  called  it.  "My  father  is 
dying  to  know  them,"  she  would  say  to  Mr.  Drum- 
mond.  "He  has  fallen  in  love  with  them  all — 
mother  and  daughters  too;  but  he  is  denying  him- 
self an  introduction  for  a  certain  reason  "  But, 
though  Archie  looked  curious  and  questioned  her 
very  closely,  she  chose  to  be  provoking  and  say  no 
more.  It  was  Colonel  Middleton  who  at  last  en- 
lightened the  young  man. 

They  were  walking  from  the  town  together.  The 
colonel  was  carrying  his  stick  musket- wise  over  his 
shoulder,  and  had  the  vicar  by  the  arm,  when 
Phillis  and  Dulce  came  out  of  the  gateway  of  the 
White  House.  As  the  girls  passed  Archie  they 
smiled  at  him  and  nodded,  and  Phillis,  in  a  pretty 
way  she  had,  waved  her  hand;  and  then  they  went 
on  rapidly  toward  the  Friary.  As  they  did  so, 
Colonel  Middleton  groaned,  and  touched  his  com- 
panion's arm  impressively. 

"There,  now,  Drummond,  did  you  ever  see  girls 
with  a  better  carnage?  heads  up — light,  springy  step? 
Why,  it  is  a  pleasure  even  to  an  old  fellow  like 
myself  to  watch  them  Fancy  that  taller  one  on 
horseback  in  the  Row!  Why,  she  would  cutout 
half  the  girls.  And  think  that  one  dare  not  notice 
them!"  And  he  struck  his  stick  into  the  ground 
almost  angrily. 

Archie  smiled;  he  could  not  help  it.  The  colonel 
was  so  whimsical  in  his  wrath. 


414  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

4 'They  have  plenty  of  notice  from  the  folk  at  the 
White  House/*  he  returned,  quietly. 

44 Ah,  Cheyne  was  always  a  bit  of  a  radical,  and 
madame  is  no  better.  They  can  do  as  they  like, 
without  being  afraid  of  consequences.  But  that  is 
not  my  case."  And,  as  Archie  looked  at  him  rather 
mystified,  he  went  on,  "Bless  me,  you  do  not  sup- 
pose 1  am  afraid  of  knowing  them  for  my  own  sake? 
Elizabeth  tells  me  that  she  is  intimate  with  them. 
But  that  is  not  my  business,  so  long  as  she  does  not 
have  them  at  Brooklyn.  *We  must  draw  the  line 
there,  Elizabeth,'  I  said.  'If  you  choose  to  visit 
your  dressmakers,  it  is  not  for  me  to  prevent  you; 
you  are  old  enough  to  select  your  own  friends,  so 
you  may  be  as  eccentric  as  you  like.  But  your 
brother  is  coming  home.  Young  men  are  young 
men ;  and  I  do  not  choose  to  expose  Hammond  to 
such  temptations.'  ' 

"Oh,  Hammond!  that  is  your  son,  I  suppose?" 
asked  Archie,  who  was  much  amused  at  the  colo- 
nel's earnestness. 

"Yes;  my  boy  Hammond!  the  finest  fellow  in  the 
regiment,  though  I  say  it,  who  should  not.  Do  you 
think  that  I,  his  father,  would  expose  him  to  such 
danger  as  to  throw  him  into  the  society  of  a  set  of 
fascinating  young  women  who  have  chosen  to 
emancipate  themselves  from  all  conventionality, 
and  who  call  themselves — stuff  and  rubbish — dress- 
makers?" 

"Not  call  themselves  so;  they  are  excellent  dress- 
makers," was  Archie's  somewhat  malicious  reply. 

"All  the  more  reason  that  my  son  should  not 
know  them!"  thundered  the  old  man.  "What,  sir! 
an  officer  in  one  of  her  majesty's  regiments — the 
son  and  grandson  of  officers—  is  such  a  one  to  be 
mixed  up  with  a  family  that  has  lost  caste — to  flirt 
with  or  make  love  to  girls  who  are  not  above  mak- 
ing gowns  for  my  butcher's  wife?  Before  Ham- 
mond does  such  a  thing  as  that — "  And  here  the 
colonel  paused  from  excess  of  emotion. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  415 

"You  are  perfectly  right  to  defend  your  son  from 
such  danger,"  returned  the  young  clergyman,  with 
covert  sarcasm.  "In  your  case  I  should  probably 
feel  the  same.  But,  in  my  position,  being  intimate 
with  those  ladies  of  whom  you  speak,  and  having 
had  good  opportunity  to  form  my  opinion  of  them,  I 
cannot  help  saying,  in  their  defense,  that  even  your 
son,  excellent  officer  as  he  is — and,  I  am  sure,  a 
most  worthy  young  man — would  scarcely  be  dishon- 
ored by  an  alliance  with  the  finest  young  gentle- 
woman I  ever  met!"  And,  as  he  said  this,  with  all 
due  gravity,  Archie  released  his  arm,  and,  with 
a  farewell  nod,  went  off,  leaving  the  colonel,  open- 
mouthed  and  gasping  with  astonishment,  at  his  own 
gate. 

Elizabeth  met  him  on  the  threshold. 

<4Oh,  father,  why  did  you  not  bring  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  in?"  she  said,  reproachfully,  "it  is  so  long 
since  he  has  paid  us  a  visit." 

"Poor  Drummond!"  replied  the  colonel,  with  a 
mournful  shake  of  his  head;  "it  is  just  as  I  thought. 
He  has  almost  owned  it,  in  fact.  He  is  seriously 
smitten  with  one  of  those  Challoner  girls,  and  before 
long  there  will  be  a  wedding  in  the  place." 

"Now,  father,  this  is  just  one  of  your  whimsies," 
replied  Elizabeth,  placidly.  "Mr.  Drummond  is 
going  to  have  his  favorite  sister,  Grace,  to  live  with 
him,  and  keep  his  house.  He  told  me  so  himself; 
and  that  does  not  look  as  though  he  expected  to 
bring  home  a  wife.  So  you  may  just  put  this  idea 
out  of  your  head. "  But  though  Elizabeth  was  well 
aware  of  the  truth  of  her  words,  that  no  new  mis- 
tress was  to  come  to  the  vicarage,  still  her  fine  sym- 
pathy and  unerring  woman's  divination  had  read  the 
meaning  of  the  young  vicar's  clouded  brow,  and  she 
knew  that  he,  too,  had  to  try  and  be  grateful  for 
"the  blessings  that  went  over  his  head." 

Archie's  grand  and  somewhat  heroic  speech  failed 
in  its  effect,  as  far  as  the  colonel  was  concerned. 
Elizabeth  was  right  in  saying  her  father  was  longing 


416  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

to  know  the  Challoners.  The  old  man's  fancy  had 
been  mightily  taken  by  the  girls;  but  for  Hammond, 
for  his  boy's  sake,  he  was  capable  of  any  amount  of 
self-denial.  Once  he  was  sorely  tempted  to  give  in. 
When  turning  the  corner  of  the  Braid  wood  Road, 
not  far  from  his  own  house,  he  came  suddenly  upon 
his  daughter,  who  was  standing  on  the  side  path, 
talking  to  Dulce. 

Dulce,  who  always  seemed  a  sort  of  reflection  and 
shadow  of  her  sisters,  and  who  withdrew  somewhat 
in  the  background,  obscured  a  little  by  Nan's  beauty 
and  Phillis's  sprightliness,  was  nevertheless  in  her 
way  a  most  bewitching  little  maiden. 

4 'There  comes  my  father!"  observed  Elizabeth, 
tranquilly,  never  doubting  that  he  would  join  them; 
and  Dulce  looked  up  a  little  shy  and  fluttered  from 
under  her  broad-brimmed  hat,  for  she  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  the  colonel,  with  his  white  mustache  and 
kindly  inquisitive  eyes.  He  was  a  sort  of  hero  in 
her  fancy,  and  Dulce  loved  heroes — especially  when 
they  wore  a  medal. 

Colonel  Middletonsaw  the  little  girl  dimpling  and 
blushing  with  pleasure,  and  his  old  heart  thumped 
a  little  with  excitement  and  the  conflict  of  feeling: 
the  innocent  child-look  appealed,  to  his  fatherly 
sympathies.  There  was  a  moment's  wavering,  then 
he  lifted  his  white  hat,  with  a  muttered  "Good- 
morning,"  and  the  next  minute  he  was  walking  on 
with  squared  shoulders  and  tremendous  energy. 
Poor  little  Dulce's  lip  quivered  with  disappoint- 
ment; she  thought  it  hard,  when  other  people  were 
so  kind  to  them.  Elizabeth  said  nothing;  but  she 
bade  the  child  good-bye  with  greater  tenderness 
than  usual,  and  sent  all  sorts  of  messages  to  her 
mother  and  Nan. 

The  colonel,  meanwhile,  had  retreated  into  the 
house,  and  was  opening  his  papers  with  more  than 
his  usual  fuss. 

4 'It  is  for  Hammond,"  he  murmured  to  himself. 
"When  one  has  boys  one  must  do  one's  duty  by 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  417 

them;  but  it  was  confoundly  hard,  by  Jove!  '  And 
all  the  remainder  of  the  day  a  pair  of  appealing 
eyes  seemed  to  reproach  him  with  unkindness.  But 
Elizabeth  never  said  a  word;  it  was  not  her  place  to 
find  fault  with  her  father. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

*HOW    DO    YOU    DO,    AUNT    CATHERINE?" 

One  drizzling  November  morning,  Mattie  was 
standing  at  the  hall  door,  looking  out  a  little 
blankly  through  the  open  gateway  at  the  prospect 
before  her — at  the  rotting  leaves  that  lay  heaped  up 
in  the  road,  and  at  the  gray,  humid  sky — when  a 
very  big  man  suddenly  blocked  up  the  entrance, 
and  startled  her  dreadfully. 

Mattie  afterward  described  the  occurrence  very 
graphically  to  her  brother: 

"He  was  the  biggest  man  I  ever  saw  in  my  life, 
Archie.  He  looked  as  strong  as  a  navvy,  and  his 
shoulders  reminded  me  of  one  of  those  men  one 
sees  in  brewers'  drays.  And  his  face  was  so  red, 
and  his  hair,  too — that  dreadfully  red  color,  you 
know,  that  no  one  admires;  and  his  hands,  and 
even  his  voice,  were  big. 

"What  a  fascinating  description!"  laughed 
Archie.  "Upon  my  word,  Mattie,  you  are  rather 
tremendous  in  your  language.  Well,  and  what  did 
the  navvy  say  to  you?" 

"Oh,  he  was  not  a  navvy,  really!  Of  course 
he  was  a  gentleman.  He  could  not  help  his  big- 
voice,  and  what  he  said  was  nice;  but  I  assure  you, 
Archie,  he  nearly  took  my  breath  away;"  and  so  on, 
and  so  on  to  the  end  of  her  story. 

But  it  was  enough  to  surprise  any  one  whose 
nerves  were  not  of  the  strongest,  when  one  lives  in  a 
lonely  country  road,  and  the  master  of  the  house  is 
out;  to  see  a  gigantic  specimen  of  manhood,  not 

2?  Girl* 


418  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

verjr  carefully  dressed,  and  with  hair  like  a  red  glory, 
come  suddenly  striding  through  one's  open  gate, 
without  "by  your  leave,"  or  waiting  for  any  possi- 
ble permission. 

Mattie  dropped  her  umbrella — for  she  was  dressed 
in  her  waterproof  and  her  oldest  hat,  ready  for  her 
district  work ;  and  the  stranger  picked  it  up  and 
handed  it  to  her  promptly,  and  then  he  removed  his 
hat  politely. 

"How  do  you  do,  cousin?"  he  said,  and  a  broad, 
genial  smile  revealed  a  set  of  white  teeth. 

Mattie  retreated  a  step  in  genuine  affright. 

"For  you  know,  Archie,"  she  explained  after- 
ward, in  her  simple  way,  "we  have  no  cousins 
worth  mentioning,  except  Sophy  Trinder,  who  is 
not  our  cousin  at  all,  but  mother's;  and  so,  you  see, 
it  sounded  so  very  odd." 

"Very  odd  indeed,"  muttered  Archie. 

"If  you  please,  Mr.  Drummond — that  is  my 
brother — is  out,  and  I  am  going  out  too,"  faltered 
Mattie,  who  was  not  a  specially  heroic  little  person, 
and  who  decidedly  had  not  got  her  wits  about  her 
just  then. 

"I  do  not  want  Mr.  Drummond,  whoever  he  may 
be.  I  never  heard  of  him  in  my  life.  I  only  want 
my  aunt  and  cousins.  Which  of  them  are  you,  eh? 
Why,  you  must  be  Nan,  I  suppose?"  And  the 
big  man  looked  down  at  her  with  a  sort  of  superci- 
lious good  nature.  The  name  gave  Mattie  instant 
enlightenment. 

"Nan!  Oh,  you  must  mean  the  Challoners!"  she 
exclaimed,  with  a  little  gasp  of  surprise. 

"Yes,  of  course;  I  am  a  Challoner  myself.  Well, 
which  of  them  are  you,  eh?  You  are  a  long  time 
telling  me  your  name."  And  the  new-comer 
peered  down  at  her  still  more  curiously,  as  though 
he  were  surprised  to  find  anything  so  small  and 
ordinary-looking. 

Mattie  never  looked  to  advantage  in  her  water- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  419 

proof.  More  than  once  her  brother  had  threatened 
to  burn  the  old  rag  of  a  thing. 

44  My  name  is  M  at  tie  Drummond,"  replied  the  be- 
wildered Mattie,  trying  to  speak  with  dignity — she 
never  would  call  herself  Matilda,  she  hated  it  so — 
"and  I  live  with  my  brother,  who  is  the  clergyman 
of  the  parish.  This  is  the  vicarage.  If  you  want 
the  Friary,  it  is  a  little  lower  down  the  road." 

"Where?"  he  asked  striding  to  the  gate;  and  then 
he  came  back  again,  taking  the  few  steps  at  a  sin- 
gle bound — so  at  least  it  appeared  to  Mattie. 
"Why — why — there  is  no  house  at  all — only  a  mis- 
erable cottage,  and " 

"That  is  the  Friary, "  repeated  Mattie,  decidedly; 
"but  it  is  not  miserable  at  all:  it  is  very  nice  and 
pretty.  The  Challoners  are  very  poor  you  know; 
but  their  house  looks  beautiful  for  all  that." 

"Oh,  yes;  I  know  all  about  that.  I  have  been 
down  to  that  place,  Oldfield,  where  they  lived,  and 
what  I  heard  has  brought  me  here  like  an  express 
train.  I  say,  Miss  Mattie  Drummond,  if  you  will 
excuse  ceremony  in  a  fellow  who  has  never  seen 
his  father's  country  before,  and  who  has  roughed  it 
in  the  colonies,  may  I  come  in  a  moment  and  ask 
you  a  few  questions  about  my  cousins?" 

"Oh,  by  all  means,"  returned  Mattie,  who  was 
very  good-natured  and  was  now  more  at  her  ease. 
"You  will  be  very  welcome,  Mr.  Challoner. " 

"Sir  Henry  Challoner,  at  your  service,"  re- 
sponded that  singular  individual,  with  a  twinkle  of 
nis  eye,  as  Mattie  became  confused  all  at  once. 
"You  see,"  he  continued,  confidentially,  as  she  led 
the  way  rather  awkwardly  to  her  brother's  study, 
hoping  fervently  that  Archie  would  come  in,  "I 
have  been  making  up  my  mind  to  come  to  England 
for  years,  but  somehow  I  have  never  been  able  to 
get  away;  but  after  my  father's  death — he  was  out 
in  Australia  with  me— I  was  so  lonely  and  cut  up 
that  I  thought  I  would  take  a  run  over  to  the 
mother-country  and  hunt  up  my  relations.  He  was 


420  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

not  much  of  a  father,  perhaps;  but,  as  one  can  not 
have  a  choice  in  such  matters,  I  was  obliged  to  put 
up  with  him;"  which  was  perhaps  the  kindest 
speech  Sir  Francis's  son  could  make  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. 

Mattie  listened  intelligently,  but  she  was  so 
slightly  acquainted  with  the  Challoner's  past  his- 
tory that  she  did  not  know  they  possessed  any  rela- 
tions. But  she  had  no  need  to  ask  any  questions: 
the  new-comer  seemed  determined  to  give  a  full 
account  of  himself. 

44So,  do  you  see,  Miss  Drummond,  having  made 
my  fortune  by  a  stroke  of  good  luck,  and  not  know- 
ing quite  how  to  spend  it — the  father  and  mother 
both  gone — and  having  no  wife  or  chick  of  my  own, 
and  be.'ng  uncommon  lonely  under  the  circum- 
stances, I  thought  I  would  just  run  over  and  have  a 
look  at  my  belongings.  I  had  a  sort  of  fancy  for 
Aunt  Catherine;  she  used  to  write  me  such  pretty 
letters  when  I  was  a  little  chap  in  Calcutta,  and  tell 
me  about  Nan  and  Phillis  and — what  was  the  baby's 
name? — Dulce.  I  believe  she  and  the  poor  old 
governor  never  hit  it  off:  the  old  man  had  been  a 
sad  sinner  in  his  day.  But  I  never  forget  those  let- 
ters: and  when  he  was  gone,  poor  old  boy!  I  said 
to  myself,  Now  I  will  go  and  see  Aunt  Catherine." 

44 And  you  went  down  to  Oldfield,  Sir  Henry?" 

44 Eh,  what!  meaning  me,  I  suppose?  but  out 
there  they  called  me  Sir  Harry,  or  Harry  mostly, 
for  what  was  the  use  of  a  title  there?  Oh,  yes;  I 
went  down  and  found  out  all  about  them  from  a 
chatty  little  woman,  rather  like  yourself,  and  she 
sent  me  on  here." 

"Oh,  dear,  I  am  so  glad!"  exclaimed  Mattie,  who 
was  now  thoroughly  herself:  44they  will  be  so 
pleased  to  see  you,  and  you  will  think  them  all 
so  charming.  I  am  sure  I  never  saw  any  one  the  least 
like  them,  except  Grace,  and  she  is  not  half  so 
pretty  as  Nan;  and  as  for  Phillis,  I  admire  her  even 
more;  she  lights  up  so  when  she  talks." 


NOT  LIKE  OTF  KR  GIRLS.  421 

"Aunt  Catherine  used  to  be  beautiful,"  observed 
Sir  Harry,  gravely;  for  then  and  afterward  he  in- 
sisted on  that  form  of  address.  He  was  not  English 
enough  or  sufficiently  stiff  for  Henry,  he  would  say. 

4kOh,  dear,  yes!  she  is  quite  lovely  now — at  least 
Archie  and  I  think  so;  and  Dulce  is  the  dearest  lit- 
tle thing.  I  am  ever  so  fond  of  them;  if  they  were 
my  own  sisters  I  could  not  love  them  more,"  con- 
tinued Mattie,  with  a  little  gush;  but,  indeed,  the 
girl's  gentle,  high-bred  ways  had  won  her  heart 
from  the  first. 

Sir  Harry's  eyes  positively  sparkled  with  delight. 
He  had  pleasant  eyes,  which  redeemed  his  other 
features;  for,  it  must  be  confessed,  he  was  de- 
cidedly plain. 

44 1  must  shake  hands  with  you,  Miss  Drummond," 
he  said,  stretching  out  a  huge  hand,  with  a 
diamond  ring  on  it  that  greatly  impressed  Mattie. 
44 We  shall  be  good  friends,  I  see  that."  And, 
though  poor  Mattie  winced  with  pain  under  that 
cordial  grasp,  she  hid  it  manfully. 

*4Did  they  tell  you  at  Oldfield  how  poor  they 
are?"  she  said,  when  this  ceremony  had  been  per- 
formed, and  Sir  Harry's  face  looked  more  like  a 
sunset  than  ever,  with  that  benevolent  glow  on  it. 

44Oh,  yes,"  he  returned,  indifferently;  44but  all 
that  is  over  now." 

44  You  know  they  have  to  work  for  their  living;  the 
girls  are  dressmakers,"  bringing  out  the  news 
rather  cautiously,  for  fear  he  should  be  shocked;  a 
baronet  must  be  sensitive  on  such  points.  But  Sir 
Harry  only  laughed. 

44 Well,  they  are  plucky  girls,"  he  said,  ad- 
miringly. *'I  like  them  for  that."  And  then  he 
asked,  a  little  anxiously,  if  his  aunt  sewed  gowns 
too — that  was  how  he  put  it — and  seemed  mightily 
relieved  to  hear  that  she  did  very  little  but  read 
to  the  girls. 

44I  would  not  like  to  hear  she  was  slaving  herself 
at  her  age, ' '  he  remarked,  seriously.  * 4  Work  wil I  not 


422  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

hurt  the  girls:  it  keeps  them  out  of  mischief.  But 
now  I  have  come,  we  must  put  a  stop  to  all  this." 
And  then  he  got  up  and  threw  back  his  shoulders, 
as  though  he  were  adjusting  them  to  some  burden; 
and  Mattie,  as  she  looked  up  at  him,  thought  again 
of  the  brewer's  dray. 

44 1  was  afraid  when  he  got  off  his  chair  he  would 
touch  the  ceiling,"  she  said,  afterward.  "He  quite 
stooped  of  his  own  accord  going  through  the  study 
doorway." 

When  Sir  Henry  had  shaken  himself  into  order, 
and  pulled  an  end  of  his  rough  red  mustache,  he 
said,  quite  suddenly: 

44 As  you  are  a  friend  of  the  family.  Miss  Drum- 
mond,  I  think  it  would  be  as  well  if  you  would  go 
with  me  to  the  Friary  and  introduce  me  in  due 
form;  for,  though  you  would  not  believe  it  in  a 
man  of  my  size,  I  am  painfully  shy,  and  the  notion 
of  all  these  girls,  unless  I  take  them  singly,  is  rather 
overwhelming."  And,  though  this  request  took 
Mattie  a  little  by  surprise,  she  saw  no  reason  for 
refusing  to  do  him  this  kindness.  So  she  assented 
willingly,  for  in  her  heart  Mattie  was  fond  of  a 
scene.  It  gave  her  such  a  hold  on  Archie's  atten- 
tion afterward;  and,  to  do  him  justice,  when  the 
Challoners  were  on  the  tapis,  he  made  a  splendid 
listener. 

Sir  Henry  walked  very  fast,  as  though  he  were  in 
a  tremendous  hurry;  but  he  was  nervous,  poor  fel- 
low, and,  though  he  did  not  like  to  own  as  much  to 
a  woman,  he  would  almost  have  liked  to  run  away, 
in  spite  of  his  coming  all  these  thousands  of  miles  to 
see  his  relations.  He  had  pressed  Mattie  into  the 
service  to  cover  his  confusion,  but  the  little  woman 
herself  hardly  saw  how  she  was  needed,  for,  instead 
of  waiting  for  her  introduction,  or  sending  in  his 
name  or  card  by  Dorothy,  he  just  put  them  both 
aside  and  stepped  into  the  first  room  that  stood 
handy,  guided  by  the  sound  of  voices. 

41  How  do  you  do,  Aunt    Catherine?"    he    said. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  42£ 

walking  straight  up  to  the  terrified  lady,  who  had 
never  seen  anything  so  big  in  her  life.  4tl  am 
Harry — Harry  Challoner,  you  know — to  whom  you 
used  to  write  when  I  was  a  little  slip  of  a  boy." 

A  strange  queen  in  a  hive  of  bees  cov.Id  not  have 
produced  more  confusion.  Dulce  stopped  her  sew- 
ing-machine so  suddenly  that  her  thread  broke ;  Phil- 
lis,  who  was  reading  aloud,  let  her  book  fall  with 
quite  a  crash;  and  Nan  said,  "Oh,  dear!"  and  grew 
quite  pale  with  surprise  and  disappointment :  for  a 
moment  she  thought  it  was  Dick.  As  for  Mrs. 
Challoner,  who  had  a  right  to  her  nerves  from  years 
of  injudicious  spoiling  and  indulgence,  and  would 
not  have  been  without  her  feelings  for  worlds,  she 
just  clasped  her  hands  and  murmured  "Good 
heavens!"  in  the  orthodox  lady-like  way. 

"Why,  yes,  Aunt  Catherine,  I  am  Harry;  and  I 
hope  you  have  not  forgotten  the  existence  of  the 
poor  little  beggar  to  whom  you  were  so  kind  in  the 
old  Calcutta  days."  And  his  big  voice  softened  in- 
voluntarily in  the  presence  of  this  dignified  aunt. 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear,  no!"  touched  by  his  manner, 
and  remembering  the  boyish  scrawls  that  used  to 
come  to  her,  signed,  "Your  affectionate  nephew, 
Harry."  "And  are  you  indeed  my  nephew — are 
you  Harry?"  And  then  she  held  out  her  slim  hand, 
which  he  took  awkwardly  enough.  "Girls,  you 
must  welcome  your  cousin.  This  is  Nan,  Harry, 
the  one  they  always  say  is  like  me;  and  this  is  Phil- 
lis,  our  clever  one;  and  this  is  my  pet,  Dulce." 
And  with  each  one  did  their  cousin  solemnly  shake 
hands,  but  without  a  smile;  indeed,  his  aspect  be- 
came almost  ludicrous,  until  he  caught  sight  of  his 
homely  little  acquaintance,  Mattie,  who  stood  an 
amused  spectator  of  this  family  tableau,  and  his 
red,  embarrassed  face  brightened  a  little. 

"Aunt  Catherine  was  such  an  awfully  grand 
creature,  you  know,"  as  he  observed  to  her  after- 
ward, in  a  confidential  aside:  "her  manner  makes  a 
fellow  feel  nowhere.  And  as  for  my  cousins,  a 


424  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

prettier  lot  of  girls  I  never  saw  anywhere;  and,  ot 
course,  they  are  as  jolly  and  up  to  larks  as  other 
girls;  but  just  at  first,  you  know,  I  had  a  bull-in-a- 
china-shop  sort  of  feeling  among  them  all." 

Mrs.  Challoner,  in  spite  of  her  fine  manners,  was 
far  too  nervous  herself  to  notice  her  nephew's  dis- 
comfort. She  had  to  mention  a  name  that  was 
obnoxious  to  her,  for  of  course  she  must  ask  after 
his  father.  She  got  him  into  a  chair  by  her  at 
length,  where  he  stared  into  his  hat  to  avoid  the 
bright  eyes  that  seemed  to  quiz  him  so  unmercifully. 

"And  how  is  Sir  Francis?"  she  asked,  uttering  the 
name  with  languid  anguish. 

"My  father!  Oh,  did  you  not  know,  Aunt 
Catherine?  He  died  out  in  Sydney  a  year  ago. 
Poor  old  fellow !  he  had  a  terrible  illness.  There 
was  no  pulling  him  through  it." 

Mrs.  Challoner  roused  up  at  this. 

"Your  father  dead!  Then,  Harry,  you  have 
come  to  the  title?" 

But  her  nephew  burst  into  a  boisterous  laugh  at 
this: 

"Yes — a  title  and  an  old  ruin.  A  precious  herit- 
age, is  it  not?  Not  that  I  care  what  people  call  me. 
The  most  important  part  is  that  another  fellow — 
Dalton  they  call  him — and  I  made  a  grand  hit  out 
in  Sydney.  When  I  saw  the  money  flowing  in  I 
just  sent  for  the  poor  old  governor  to  join  me;  and 
we  did  not  have  a  bad  time  of  it,  until  the  gout 
took  him  off.  And  then  1  got  sick  of  it  all,  and 
thought  I  would  have  a  look  at  England  and  hunt 
up  my  relations." 

Sir  Harry  had  blurted  out  this  long  speech  as  he 
still  attentively  regarded  the  lining  of  his  hat;  but, 
happening  to  look  up,  he  caught  Phillis's  eyes,  which 
were  contemplating  him.  The  mischievous  look  of 
fun  in  them  was  not  to  be  resisted.  Sir  Harry  first 
got  redder,  if  possible;  then  his  own  eyes  began  to 
twinkle,  and  finally  they  both  laughed.  And  after 
that  the  ice  was  broken,  and  they  got  on  famously. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  4$ 

The  girls  chattered  to  him  like  magpies.  They 
made  Mattie  take  off  her  hat  and  hideous  old  water- 
proof and  stay  to  luncheon.  Nan  smoothed  her 
hair,  which  was  sadly  ruffled,  and  Phillis  settled  her 
brooch  and  collar. 

There  was  only  cold  mutton  in  the  larder;  but 
what  did  that  matter?  Dulce  ran  into  the  garden 
and  picked  dahlias  for  the  table ;  and  Nan  took  her 
mother's  keys  and  drew  from  the  recesses  of  a  dim, 
sweet-smelling  press  some  dainty  napkins  and  a 
fine  old  cloth  that  might  have  suited  a  princess. 
There  was  a  bottle  of  rare  Madeira  that  remained 
from  their  stock  of  wine;  and  Dorothy  had  made  a 
batch  of  fresh  dinner-rolls.  Dorothy  was  always  full 
of  resources  on  an  emergency. 

"Don't  flash  yourself,  Miss  Nan,"  she  said,  when 
her  young  mistress  came  into  the  kitchen.  "The 
cold  mutton  can't  be  helped,  but  we  have  got 
angels  in  the  larder,  and  I  will  just  pop  them  into 
the  oven." 

Sir  Harry  laughed  when  Dorothy's  speech  was 
repeated  to  him.  The  little  puddings  were  de- 
clared by  Mattie  to  be  delicious;  but  Sir  Harry 
could  scarce  eat  for  his  laughing. 

44  Who  ever- heard  of  baked  angels,  Aunt  Cather- 
ine!" he  exclaimed,  after  another  explosion. 

"My  dear,  it  is  only  a  name,"  she  returned; 
mildly.  "Will  you  have  another,  Harry?  And, 
Nan,  you  must  pass  your  cousin  the  Madeira." 

They  were  all  seated  round  the  table  in  the  small 
parlor.  It  was  felt  to  be  a  triumph  when  Sir  Harry 
contrived  to  seat  himself  without  grazing  himself 
seriously  against  the  chiffonier  or  knocking  over  a 
piece  of  the  blue-and-gold  china. 

"What  a  cozy  little  cabin  of  a  place!"  he  said, 
with  a  critical  approval-  "but  it  is  rather  small  to 
hold  you  all — eh,  Aunt  Catherine?" 

"Yes;  it  is  small  after  Glen  Cottage,"  she 
sighed.  "We  had  such  a  pretty  drawing-room 
there." 

28  Other  Girls 


426  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"And  such  a  lovely  garden/'  added  Dulce. 

"Oh,  this  crib  is  not  fit  for  you!  We  will  alter  all 
that,"  he  returned,  complacently.  "I  am  the  head 
of  the  family  now,  and  I  must  take  my  uncle's 
place.  I  am  awfully  rich,  Aunt  Catherine;  so  you 
have  only  got  to  tell  me  what  you  and  the  girls 
want,  you  know."  And  then  he  rubbed  his  hands 
as  though  he  were  pleased  about  something. 

But  no  one  took  any  notice  of  this  speech,  hardly 
knowing  how  to  treat  it. 

When  luncheon — which  was,  indeed,  the  family 
dinner — was  over,  the  girls  carried  him  off  to  the 
work-room,  and  showed  him  specimens  of  their 
skill. 

"Very  nice;  very  well  done,"  he  observed, 
approvingly.  "I  am  glad  you  showed  such  pluck; 
for  why  any  woman  should  think  it  infra  dig.  to 
make  a  gown  for  another  woman  quite  beats  me. 
Why,  bless  you,  in  the  colonies  we  fellows  turned 
our  hands  to  anything!  Well,  Aunt  Catherine, 
they  are  plucky  ones,  these  girls  of  yours.  But  we 
must  put  a  stop  to  this  sort  of  thing,  you  and  I.  I 
don't  think  my  uncle  would  have  liked  it.  And  1 
am  in  his  place — "  And  here  he  thrust  aside  some 
amber  satin  with  his  great  hands,  with  a  movement 
full  of  suggestive  possibilities. 

He  took  them  all  out  to  walk  after  that.  Mrs. 
Challoner,  indeed,  begged  to  be  excused — the  poor 
lady  was  already  sadly  fatigued,  and  longed  for  her 
nap— but  he  would  not  dispense  with  Mattie's  com- 
pany. 

"We  were  acquaintances  first,"  he  said  to  her; 
"and  I  look  upon  you  as  a  sort  of  cousin  too,  Miss 
Mattie. "  And  poor  little  Mattie,  who  had  never  met 
with  so  much  friendliness  before,  quite  blushed  and 
bridled  with  pleasure. 

Mr.  Drummond,  who  was  coming  out  of  his  own 
gate,  stood  as  though  transfixed  as  the  procession 
came  toward  him.  The  four  girls  were  walking  all 
abreast,  Mattie  in  the  middle;  and  beside  them 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  427 

stalked  a  huge  man  in  rough,  rather  outlandish 
attire,  looking  like  a  son  of  the  Anakim,  or  a  red- 
headed Goliath. 

Archie  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and 
Mattie  rushed  up  to  him : 

44  We  are  going  for 'a  walk.  Oh,  Archie,  I  wish 
you  would  come  too!  It  would  be  such  fun!" 

"Yes;  do  come!"  cried  unconscious  Nan,  second- 
ing her  out  of  pure  good  nature.  4<Mr.  Drummond, 
this  is  our  cousin,  Sir  Henry  Challoner,  who  has 
just  come  from  Australia,  and  we  have  never  seen 
him  before."  And  then  the  young  clergyman 
shook  hands  with  him  very  stiffly,  and  spoke  a  few 
conventional  words. 

4 'They  have  not  a  man  belonging  to  them,"  he 
had  said  to  himself,  triumphantly,  and  then  that 
odious  Dick  had  turned  up,  and  now  this  extraor- 
dinary-looking being  who  called  himself  Sir  Henr> 
Challoner. 

Archie  took  down  the  <4 Peerage"  when  he  got 
home,  for  he  could  not  be  induced  to  join  the  merry 
party  in  their  walk.  He  found  the  name  there  all 
right— 44 Henry  Fortescue  Challoner,  son  of  Sir 
Francis  Challoner,  son  of  Sir  Henry  Challoner," 
and  so  on.  It  was  an  old  baronetcy — one  of  the 
oldest  in  England — but  the  estates  had  dwindled 
down  to  a  half-ruined  residence  and  a  few  fields. 
"Challoner  Place, "as  it  was  called,  was  nothing 
but  a  heap  of  moldering  walls;  but  Mattie  had 
whispered  to  him  gleefully  that  he  was  "awfully 
rich,  and  the  head  of  the  family,  and  unmarried; 
and  he  did  not  mean  to  let  his  cousins  make  gowns 
any  more  for  other  people,  though  they  might  do  it 
for  themselves." 

Mattie  never  forgot  that  walk.  Never  in  her  life 
had  she  enjoyed  such  fun.  Archie,  with  his  grave 
face  and  prim  ways,  would  have  spoiled  the  hilarity. 

First  Sir  Henry  took  his  cousins  to  the  hotel, 
where  they  heard  him  order  his  apartments  and 
dinner;  he  evidently  considered  he  had  not  dined; 


428  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

and  there  was  a  good  deal  of  discussion  about  the 
game  that  he  ordered,  and  a  certain  brand  of  cham- 
pagne that  was  to  his  liking. 

44  If  they  make  me  comfortable  I  may  stop  on  a 
goodish  bit,"  he  informed  them,  " until  we  have 
settled  where  my 'aunt  would  like  to  live.  I  shall 
run  up  to  London  every  few  days,  and  can  do  all 
your  commissions.  By  the  bye,  I  got  some  trinkets 
for  you  girls  on  my  way  down:  we  will  haul  them 
over  when  I  come  up  for  the  cup  of  coffee  Aunt 
Catherine  promised  me  this  evening." 

"Now,  Harry,  we  don't  want  presents,"  re- 
marked Phillis,  taking  him  to  task  as  easily  as 
though  she  had  known  him  all  her  life  long. 

In  spite  of  his  bigness,  his  great  burly  figure  and 
plain  face,  there  was  something  very  pleasant  about 
him.  He  was  rough  and  unpolished,  his  dress  was 
careless  and  of  colonial  cut,  and  yet  one  could  not 
fail  to  see  he  was  a  gentleman.  His  boyishness  and 
fun  would  have  delighted  Dick,  who  was  of  the 
same  caliber;  only  Dick  was  far  cleverer,  and  had 
more  in  his  little  finger  than  this  great  lumbering 
Harry  in  his  whole  body. 

He  was  slow  and  clumsy,  but  his  heart  and  inten- 
tions were  excellent;  he  was  full  of  tenderness  for 
women,  and  showed  a  touching  sort  of  chivalry  in 
his  intercourse  with  them.  In  some  ways  his  man- 
ners were  far  finer  than  those  of  a  New  Bond  Street 
gentleman ;  for  he  could  not  sneer  at  a  woman,  he 
believed  in  the  goodness  of  the  sex,  in  spite  of  much 
knowledge  to  the  contrary;  he  could  not  tell  a  lie, 
and  he  only  cheated  himself.  This  was  saying  a 
good  deai  for  the  son  of  that  very  black  sheep,  Sir 
Francis;  but,  as  Sir  Harry  once  simply  observed, 
"his  mother  was  a  good  woman. "  If  this  were  the 
case,  her  husband's  vices  must  have  shortened  her 
life,  for  she  died  young. 

Phillis  was  glad  when  they  turned  their  backs  on 
the  town:  she  found  her  cousin's  long  purse  a  difii- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  429 

culty:  it  seemed  an  impossibility  to  get  him  past 
the  shops. 

First,  he  was  sure  Aunt  Catherine  was  fond  of 
champagne— all  ladies  liked  sweet,  sparkling  things ; 
but  he  would  see  about  that  at  the  hotel  presently. 
Then  his  attention  was  attracted  by  some  grouse 
hanging  up  at  the  poulterer's.  Aunt  Catherine 
must  have  some  grouse,  as  he  remembered  the  cold 
mutton.  Phillis  made  no  objection  to  the  grouse, 
for  she  knew  her  mother's  fondness  for  game;  but 
she  waxed  indignant  when  partridges  and  a  hare 
were  added,  and  still  more  when  Sir  Harry  ran- 
sacked the  fruiterers  for  a  supply  of  the  rarest  fruit 
the  town  could  afford.  After  this,  he  turned  his 
attention  to  cakes  and  bonbons;  but  here  Dulce  took 
his  part,  for  she  loved  bonbons.  Phillis  caught  Nan 
by  the  arm  and  compelled  her  to  leave  them;  but 
Mattie  deserted  her  friends,  and  remained  to  watch 
the  fun. 

Dulce  grew  frightened  at  last,  and  tried  to  coax 
her  cousin  away. 

"Oh,  no  more — no  more!"  she  pleaded.  ** Phillis 
and  Nan  will  be  so  angry  with  us. " 

"I  don't  see  anything  more  worth  getting/* 
returned  her  cousin,  contemptuously.  "What  a 
place  this  is,  to  be  sure!  Never  mind,  Dulce;  I  am 
going  to  London  to-morrow,  and  I  will  bring  you 
down  as  many  bonbons  as  you  like  from  the  French 
place  in  Regent  Street.  I  will  bring  Miss  Mattie 
some  too,"  he  continued,  as  the  girls  hurried  him 
along.  "And,  Dulce,  just  write  out  a  list  of  what 
you  girls  want,  and  1  will  get  them,  as  sure  as  my 
name  is  Harry/' 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 


CHAPTER  XL. 

ALCIDES 

There  was  quite  a  battle-royal  on  the  sea-shore 
after  that.  Dulce  and  Phillis  pelted  Laddie  with 
bonbons,  while  their  mother  enjoyed  her  nap  in  the 
snug  parlor.  And  Dorothy,  pleased,  bewildered, 
and  half  frightened  at  what  the  mistress  might  say, 
stowed  away  game  and  fruit  and  confectionery  in 
the  tiny  larder,  and  then  turned  her  attention  to 
such  a  tea  as  her  young  ladies  had  not  seen  since  the 
Glen  Cottage  days. 

Laddie  raced  and  barked,  and  Nan  laughed,  and 
then  grew  serious  as  she  remembered  an  afternoon 
in  the  Longmead  meadows,  when  Dick,  in  wild 
spirits,  had  pelted  her  and  Phillis  with  roses  until 
their  laps  were  full  of  the  delicious,  fragrant  leaves. 
"  *  Sweets  to  the  sweet' — so  look  out  for  yourself, 
Nan!"  he  said  in  his  half-rough,  boyish  way.  But 
that  was  in  the  days  when  both  were  very  young 
and  Dick  had  not  learned  to  make  love. 

Mattie  joined  in  the  game  a  little  awkwardly — it 
was  so  long  since  the  poor  little  woman  had  played 
at  anything.  Her  younger  sisters  never  chose 
Mattie  in  their  games.  "She  makes  such  mistakes, 
and  puts  us  out;  and  that  spoils  the  fun,"  they  said; 
and  so  Grace  was  their  favorite  playfellow. 

For  it  is  perfectly  true  that  some  grown-up  people 
have  forgotten  how  to  play,  while  others  are  such 
children  at  heart  that  they  can  abandon  themselves 
most  joyously  and  gracefully  to  any  game,  however 
romping;  but  Mattie,  who  was  sobered  by  frequent 
snubbing,  was  not  one  of  these.  She  loved  fun  still, 
in  her  way,  but  not  as  Phillis  and  Dulce,  who 
thought  it  the  cream  of  life  and  would  not  be  con- 
tent with  the  sort  of  skimmed-milk  existence  of 
other  young  ladies. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,  43! 

Sir  Harry  watched  them  admiringly,  and  his 
enthusiasm  grew  every  moment. 

"I  say,  you  are  the  right  sort,  and  no  mistake. 
I  never  met  jollier  girls  in  all  my  life.  A  fellow 
would  not  knuw  which  to  choose:  would  he,  Miss 
Mattie?" 

Mattie  took  this  seriously. 

"Nan  is  chosen — are  you  not,  Nan?"  she  said,  in 
her  downright  tashion.  And  then,  as  Sir  Harry 
started  at  this,  and  Nan  blushed  and  looked  even 
prettier,  Phillis  first  scolded  Mattie  soundly  for  her 
bluntness,  and  then  took  upon  herself  to  describe 
Dick's  perfections: 

41  The  dearest  fellow  in  the  world,  Harry,  when 
you  come  to  know  him;  but  not  handsome,  and 
dreadfully  young-looking,  some  people  think.  But, 
as  Nan  will  not  look  at  any  one  else,  we  must  make 
the  best  of  him." 

"And  when  are  they  to  be  married?1'  asked  her 
cousin,  curiously.  He  was  not  quite  pleased  with 
this  discovery. 

"When?  Oh,  Harry,  there  is  an  4if  in  the  case," 
returned  Phillis,  solemnly.  "The  dearest  fellow 
in  the  world  has  an  oger  of  a  lather — a  man  so 
benighted,  so  narrow  in  his  prejudices,  that  he 
thinks  it  decidedly  infra  dig.  for  his  intended  daugh- 
ter-in-law to  sew  other  people's  gowns.  I  do  love 
that  expression,  Harry,  it  is  so  forcible.  So  he 
forbids  the  bans." 

"No,  really!  Is  she.  serious,  Nan?"  But  Nan 
grew  shy  all  at  once  and  would  not  answer. 

"I  am  serious,  Sir  Henry  Challoner,"  replied 
Phillis,  pompously.  "The  path  of  true  love  is 
impeded.  Poor  Dick  is  pining  in  his  rooms  at 
Oxford;  and  Nan — well,  I  am  afraid  her  looks  belie 
her;  only  you  know  appearances  are  sometimes 
deceitful."  And  indeed  Nan's  pink  cheeks  and  air 
of  placid  contentment  scarcely  bore  out  her  sister's 
words. 

The  newly  found  cousin  sat  in  silent  perplexity, 


432  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

staring  at  them  both.  Love  affairs  were  not  much 
in  his  way;  and  until  now  he  had  never  been  thrown 
much  with  his  equals  in  the  other  sex.  His  rough 
colonial  life,  full  of  excitement  and  money-getting, 
had  engrossed  his  youth.  He  was  now  a  man  of 
thirty;  but  in  disposition,  in  simplicity,  and  in  a, 
certain  guilelessness  of  speech,  he  seemed  hardly 
more  than  an  overgrown  boy. 

"Well,  now,  is  it  not  like  a  book?"  he  said,  at 
last,  breaking  the  silence  abruptly.  "It  must  be 
an  awful  bother  for  you,  Nan ;  but  we  must  put  a 
stop  to  all  that.  I  am  the  head  of  the  family;  and 

I  shall  have  a  word  to  say  to  that  Mr. what  is 

his  name?" 

"Mr.  Mayne,"  returned  Nan,  softly. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  name  of  Hercules 
came  into  Phillis's  head  for  her  cousin.  What  feats 
of  strength  did  he  mean  to  undertake  on  their 
behalf?  Would  he  strangle  the  hydra-headed 
monster  of  public  opinion  that  pronounced  "women 
who  sewed  other  women's  gowns"  were  not  to  be 
received  into  society?  Would  he  help  IN  an  gather 
the  golden  apples  of  satisfied  love  and  ambition? 
What  was  it  that  he  meant  to  do  by  dint  of  sheer 
force  and  good  nature? 

Harry  Challoner  did  not  long  leave  them  in  ignor- 
ance of  his  intentions.  In  the  coolest  possible  way 
he  at  once  assumed  the  leadership  of  the  family — 
adopting  them  at  once,  and  giving  them  the  benefit 
of  his  opinions  on  every  point  that  could  possibly  be 
mooted. 

"1  had  not  a  soul  belonging  to  me  until  now,"  he 
said, looking  around  on  his  cousins'  bright  faces  with 
a  glow  of  honest  satisfaction  on  his  own.  "It  made 
a  fellow  feel  precious  lonely  out  there,  I  can  tell 
you, " 

"You  ought  to  have  married,  Harry,*'  suggested 
Dulce. 

"I  never  thought  anyone  would  care  for  such  a 
great  hulking  fellow,"  he  returned,  simply: 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  433 

then  the  girls  over  there  were  not  to  my  taste. 
Besides,  1  never  thought  of  it ;  I  was  too  busy.  I 
am  going  to  take  a  holiday  now,  and  look  about  me 
a  little;  and  when  you  and  Aunt  Catherine  are 
settled,  I  may  have  a  try  myself  at  some  one,'*  he 
finished,  with  a  big  laugh. 

This  notion  amused  the  girls  Immensely,  then  and 
afterward.  They  began  to  talk  of  the  future  Lady 
Challoner.  Nan  proposed  one  of  the  Paines.  Pnil- 
lis  thought  if  Grace  Drummond  were  only  as  sweet 
looking  as  her  photograph,  he  could  hardly  help 
falling  in  love  with  her.  And  Dulce  was  of  opinion 
that  Adelaide  Sartoris,  handsome  and  queenly  as 
she  was,  would  not  consider  a  baronet  beneath  her. 
They  confided  all  these  thoughts  to  Sir  Harry,  who 
thanked  them  quite  gravely  for  their  interest  and 
promised  to  consider  the  matter.  He  even  wrote 
down  the  names  in  his  pocket-book  one  after 
another. 

"Adelaide  Sartoris,  did  you  say?  Ah,  he  had  an 
Adelaide  at  Sydney,  a  little,  dark  thing,  with  hair 
blown  all  over  her  temples,  and  such  a  pair  of  mis- 
chievious  eyes.  That  girl  was  always  laughing  at 
me,  somehow.  And  yet  she  seemed  sorry  to  bid  me 
good-bye." 

"Perhaps  she  was  in  love  with  you?"  observed 
Dulce.  But  Phillis  frowned  at  this.  She  thought 
they  had  gone  too  far  in  their  jokes  already  with  a 
cousin  who  was  such  a  complete  stranger.  But  he 
returned,  quite  gravely: 

"Well,  now,  you  know,  such  a  thing  never  came 
into  my  head.  I  talked  to  her  because  a  fellow 
likes  to"  be  amused  by  a  lively  girl  like  Miss  Addie. 
But  as  to  thinking  seriously  of  her — well,  I  could 
not  stand  that,  you  know,  to  be  laughed  at  all  one's 
life:  eh,  Miss  Mattie?"  And  Mattie  at  this  appeal 
looked  up  with  round,  innocent  eyes,  and  said, 
"Certainly  not/'  in  such  an  impressive  tone  that 
the  other  girls  burst  out  laughing. 

They   all   went   home    after   that.      Sir  Harry 


434  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

escorted  his  cousins  and  Mattie  to  the  Friary,  and 
then  returned  to  his  hotel  to  dinner.  But  the  girls, 
who  were  in  a  merry  mood,  would  not  part  with 
Mattie.  They  sent  her  home  to  put  on  her  green 
silk  dress,  with  strict  orders  that  she  was  to  return 
as  soon  as  possible. 

*'We  are  all  going  to  make  ourselves  pretty," 
announced  Phillis.  "A  cousin  does  not  turn  up 
every  day  and  when  he  promises  to  be  a  good  fel- 
low, like  Harry,  we  can  not  do  him  too  much 
honor." 

**Ah,  I  should  like  to  come,"  returned  Mattie. 
44 1  have  had  such  a  nice  day;  and,  if  Archie  will  not 
mind — *  And  then  she  bustled  into  the  vicarage, 
and  into  her  brother's  study. 

Archie  roused  himself  a  little  wearily  from  his 
abstraction  to  listen  to  his  sister's  story;  but  at  the 
end  of  it  he  said  good-naturedly,  for  he  had  taught 
himself  to  be  tolerant  of  Mattie's  little  gaucheries: 

"And  the  long  and  short  of  it  is  that  you  want  to 
be  gadding  again.  Well,  run  and  get  ready,  or 
you  will  keep  their  tea  waiting;  and  do  put  on  your 
collar  straight,  Mattie."  But  this  slight  thrust  was 
lost  on  Mattie  as  she  delightedly  withdrew.  Archie 
sighed  as  he  tried  to  compose  himself  to  his  read- 
ing. He  had  not  been  asked  to  join  Mattie.  For 
the  last  few  weeks  he  had  become  a  stranger  to  the 
cottage  Did  they  notice  his  absence?  he  wondered. 
Did  the  miss  the  visits  that  had  once  been  so  fre- 
quent? By  and  by  he  would  resume  his  old  habits 
of  intimacy,  and  go  among  them  as  he  had  done; 
but  just  now  the  effort  was  too  painful.  He  dreaded 
the  unspoken  sympathy  in  Phillis's  eyes.  He 
dreaded  anything  like  an  understanding  between 
them.  Nan's  perfect  unconsciousness  was  helpful 
to  him;  but  there  was  something  in  Phillis's  man- 
ner that  stirred  up  an  old  pain.  For  the  present  he 
was  safer  and  happier  alone  in  his  study,  though 
Mattie  did  not  think  so,  and  told  her  friends  that 
Archie  looked  terribly  dull. 


KOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  435 

Mrs.  Challoner  proposed  sending  for  him;  but 
Phillis,  greatly  to  her  mother's  surprise,  negatived 
the  proposition: 

44 Oh,  no,  mother;  pray  do  not!  Mattie,  you  must 
excuse  me.  I  do  not  mean  to  be  rude,"  but  we 
should  all  have  to  be  so  dreadfully  well  behaved  if 
Mr.  Drummond  came,  and  I  just  feel  myself  in  a 
*  nonsense  mood,'  as  Dulce  used  to  say  when  she  was 
a  baby. "  And  then  they  all  forgot  Archie,  and 
fell  to  discussing  the  new  cousin. 

4kHe  is  dreadfully  ugly,  mammie,  is  he  not?" 
observed  Dulce,  who  had  a  horror  of  red  hair.  But 
Mrs.  Challoner  demurred: 

44 Well,  no,  pet;  I  can  not  agree  with  you.  He  is 
very  plain,  but  so  is  Dick;  but  it  struck  me  they 
were  both  rather  alike."  An  indignant  44How  can 
you,  mother!"  from  Nan.  44 Well,  my  dear,"  she 
continued,  placidly,  44I  do  not  mean  really  alike, 
for  they  have  not  a  feature  in  common;  but  they 
have  both  got  the  same  honest,  open  look,  only 
Dick's  face  is  more  intelligent"  But  this  hardly 
appeased  Nan,  who  was  heard  to  say,  under  her 
breath,  44that  she  thought  Dick  had  the  nicest  face 
in  the  world. " 

44 And  Sir  Harry  has  a  nice  face,  too;  has  he  not> 
Mrs.  Challoner?"  exclaimed  Mattie,  who  never  could 
be  silent  in  a  discussion.  "It  takes  time  to  get  used 
to  such  very  red  hair;  and,  of  course,  he  is  dread- 
fully big — almost  too  big,  I  should  say.  But  when 
he  talks  he  has  such  a  good-natured  way  with  him; 
now,  hasn't  he?"  appealing  to  Nan,  who  looked  just 
a  little  glum — that  is.  glum  for  Nan,  for  she  could 
not  do  the  sulks  properly;  she  could  only  look 
dignified. 

Mrs.  Challoner  grew  a  little  alarmed  at  her 
daughter's  demure  face:  "Nan,  darling,  you  know 
I  am  as  fond  of  Dick  as  possible ;  but  I  can  not 
help  being  pleased  with  my  nephew;  can  I?  And  I 
must  say  I  think  Harry  is  very  nice,  in  spite  of  his 


486  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

roughness."  But  here  Phillis,  who  had  been  unac- 
countably silent,  suddenly  struck  in: 

"Mother,  it  was  a  mistake  mentioning  Dick:  the 
name  is  sacred.  Nan,  if  it  will  please  you,  we  will 
declare  that  he  is  beautiful  as  a  young  Apollo." 

"Don't  be  a  goose,  Phil!"  from  her  sister.  But 
Nan  was  smiling. 

"As  for  Harry,  he  is  a  perfect  hero.  I  expect 
great  things  from  the  great  men.  To  my  imagina- 
tion he  is  a  perfect  Hercules — Heracles,  son  of  Zeus 
and  Alcmene.  I  wonder  if  Harry  could  tell  us  the 
name  of  Hercules1  mother?" 

"Of  course  not,  and  no  one  else,  either,"  retorted 
Dulce. 

But  Phillis  did  not  heed  this. 

"To  me  he  shall  be  the  young  Alcides.  He  has 
promised  to  fight  the  Nemaean  lion,  in  the  shape  of 
Richard  Mayne  the  elder.  By  and  by  we  shall  have 
him  striking  off  the  heads  of  the  Lernean  Hydra. 
You  look  mystified,  Nan.  And  I  perceive  Mattie 
has  a  perplexed  countenance.  I  am  afraid  you  are 
deficient  in  heathen  mythology;  but  I  will  spare 
your  ignorance.  You  will  see,  though,  I  am 
right " 

"But,  Phillis,"  broke  in  Dulce,  eagerly.  But 
Phillis  waved  her  hand  majestically  at  the  inter- 
ruption: 

"Mother,  to  be  serious,  I  consider  Harry  in  the 
light  of  a  providential  interposition.  You  are 
always  mourning  that  there  is  not  a  man  belonging 
to  us.  Well,  now  we  have  got  one,  large  as  life, 
and  larger,  and  a  very  good  fellow,  as  you  say;  and 
we  are  no  longer  *  forlorn  females.'  " 

"And  indeed,  Phillis,  I  am  most  thankful  for  that, 
my  dear;  for  if  Harry  be  only  as  good  as  a  brother 
to  you '* 

"He  means  to  be  more,"  returned  Phillis,  with  a 
sage  nod  of  her  head.  "He  talks  in  the  coolest  way, 
as  though  he  had  adopted  the  whole  family  and 
meant  to  put  a  spoke  into  the  domestic  wheel.  *I 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  432 

must  put  a  stop  to  this/  or  'That  must  be  altered,' 
has  been  a  frequent  remark  of  his.  Mother,  if  he 
is  dreadfully  rich,  as  he  says,  does  he  mean  to  make 
us  rich  too?" 

"My  dear,  we  have  no  claim  on  him." 

"He  thinks  we  have  the  strongest  possible  claim; 
does  he  not,  Nan?  You  should  have  heard  him 
talk  this  afternoon!  According  to  him,  we  were 
never  to  sew  gowns  again;  Nan,  and  Dick  were  to 
be  immediately  united;  the  Friary  was  to  be  pulled 
down,  and  a  glorified  Glen  Cottage  to  be  erected  in 
its  stead.  But,  mother" — here  Phillis's  lips  grew 
plaintive — "you  won't  desert  your  own  girls,  and 
be  talked  over  even  by  an  Alcides?  We  do  not 
mean  to  have  our  little  deeds  put  on  the  shelf  in 
that  off-hand  fashion.  I  shall  sew  gowns  as  long  as 
1  like,  in  spite  of  a  hundred  Sir  Harrys." 

And  then  they  perceived  that  under  Phillis's  fun 
there  was  a  vein  of  serious  humor,  and  that,  in  spite 
of  her  admiration  of  her  hero,  she  was  a  little  afraid 
that  her  notions  of  independence  would  be  wounded. 

They  became  divided  on  the  question.  Mrs. 
Challoner,  who  had  never  had  a  son  of  her  own,  and 
did  not  much  like  the  idea  of  a  son-in-law,  was  dis- 
posed to  regard  her  nephew  warmly,  and  to  accord 
him  at  once  his  privilege  of  being  head  of  the  family. 

"In  this  case  a  cousin  is  as  good  as  a  brother, " 
she  averred;  and  Nan  rather  leaned  to  her  opin- 
ion. 

"  You  see, "  shesaid,  in  her  practical  way,  address- 
ing no  one  in  particular,  but  looking  at  Phillis,  "it 
has  been  terribly  against  us,  having  no  one  belong- 
ing to  us  of  the  same  name;  and  it  will  really  give 
us  a  standing  with  some  sort  of  people." 

"Fy,  Nan!  what  a  worldly  speech!  You  are 
thinking  of  that  tiresome  Mayne  pere  again." 

"I  have  to  think  of  him,"  returned  Nan,  not  at 
all  put  out  by  this.  "Dick's  father  must  be  a  per- 
son of  great  importance  to  me.  He  has  often  hinted 
in  my  hearing  that  we  have  no  relations,  and  that 


438  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

the  ChalJoner  name  will  die  out.  I  expect  he  will 
be  rather  taken  aback  at  Harry's  appearance." 

**Yes;  and  Dick  will  be  jealous:  he  always  is  of 
other  fellows,  as  he  calls  them.  You  must  score 
that  up  against  Dick,  please.  Well,  I  won't  deny 
that  Harry  may  make  himself  useful  there:  all  I 
protest  against  is  the  idea  that  he  will  bundle  us  out 
of  this  dear  old  Friary,  and  make  us  grand,  in  spite 
of  ourselves. " 

44 Dear  old  Friary!  Oh,  oh!"  gasped  Dulce;  and 
even  Nan  looked  mildly  surprised. 

"He  will  not  make  me  give  up  my  work  until  I 
choose,"  continued  Phillis,  who  was  in  an  obstinate 
mood.  "It  is  not  make-believe  play- work,  I  can  tell 
him  that;"  but  Mrs.  Challoner  grew  tearful  at 
this. 

''Phillis,  my  dear,  pray  hush!  Indeed — indeed  I 
can  not  have  you  talking  as  though  you  meant  and 
wished  to  be  a  dressmaker  all  your  life  " 

And  when  Phillis  asked,  "Why  not?"  just  for  the 
sake  of  argument — tor  in  her  heart  she  was  growing 
heartily  sick  of  her  employment — her  mother  threw 
up  her  hands  in  despair: 

44 Oh,  my  dear  Miss  Drummond,  do  not  believe 
her:  Phillis  is  a  good  girl, -but  she  is  always  like 
that — hard  to  be  convinced.  She  does  not  really 
mean  it.  She  has  worked  harder  than  any  of  them, 
but  she  has  only  done  it  for  her  mother's  sake." 

44Of  course  she  does  not  mean  it,"  echoed  Nan, 
affectionately, and  much  struck  by  a  sudden  yearning 
look  on  Phillis's  face — an  expression  of  smothered 
pain;  but  Phillis  drew  away  from  her  sister's  gentle 
grasp. 

44I  do  mean  it!"  she  said,  almost  passionately. 
"I  am  dreadfully  tired  of  work  sometimes,  and  hate 
it.  Oh,  how  I  hate  it!  But  1  think  I  have  been 
happy  too.  I  liked  the  excitement  of  the  fighting, 
and  the  novelty  of  the  thing;  it  was  such  fun — first 
shocking  people,  and  then  winning  them  over  in 
spite  of  themselves.  One  felt  'plucky,'  as  Harry 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  439 

said.  And  then  one's  friends  were  so  real. "  And 
her  eyes  fell  unconsciously  on  Mattie. 

"Oh,  yes,"  returned  Mattie,  with  her  usual  gush: 
"Archie  and  I  took  to  you  from  the  first.  I  must 
say  I  was  surprised,  knowing  how  fastidious  Archie 
was,  and  his  notions  about  young  ladies  in  general. 
But,  dear,  he  never  would  hear  a  word  against  you: 
he  was  even  angry  with  Colonel  Middleton  the 
other  day  because — but  there!  I  ought  not  to  have 
told  you  that." 

"Oh,  we  know  all  about  it,"  returned  Phillis, 
carelessly;  but  Dulce's  bright  face  looked  a  little 
overcast.  "Son  Hammond  is  in  the  case;  and  we 
can  all  judge  of  a  father's  feelings  by  a  certain 
example  that  shall  be  nameless.  Good  gracious, 
mammie!  there  comes  the  Alcides  himself,  and 
Dorothy  has  not  cleared  the  tea-things!  I  vote  we 
meet  him  in  the  garden,  to  avert  breakages."  And 
Phillis' s  proposition  was  carried  out. 

But  when  they  were  all  seated  in  the  little  parlor 
again,  and  the  lamp  was  brought,  sundry  packages 
made  their  appearance,  and  were  delightfully 
unpacked  by  the  girls,  Phillis  assisting  with  great 
interest,  in  spite  of  her  heroic  speeches 

"One  can  accept  gifts  from  a  cousin, "  she  said 
afterward. 

Sir  Harry  had  shown  good  taste  in  his  purchases. 
The  ornaments  and  knickknacks  were  all  pretty  and 
well  chosen.  The  good-natured  fellow  had  ransacked 
the  shops  in  Paris  for  such  things  as  he  thought 
would  please  his  unknown  cousins.  The  bracelets 
and  fans  and  gloves  and  laces  made  Dulce  almost 
dance  with  glee.  The  lace  was  for  Aunt  Catherine, 
he  said;  and  there  were  gloves  for  everybody — 
dozens  and  dozens  of  them.  But  the  fans  and 
bracelets  were  for  the  girls,  and  to-morrow  he  would 
get  the  bonbons  for  Dulce.  And  then,  as  the  girls 
laughingly  apportioned  the  spoil,  he  whispered 
something  to  Nan,  at  which  she  nodded  and  smiled. 

Mattie,   who  was  carefully  admiring  the  lace  in 


440  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

her  short-sighted  way,  felt  something  touch  her 
elbow,  and  found  Nan  pushing  a  fan  and  a  parcel 
of  gloves  toward  her  —  beautiful  gloves,  such  as 
Isabel  had  in  her  trousseau. 

44 Yes  take  them;  we  have  so  many;  and,  indeed, 
we  have  no  use  for  more  than  a  fan  apiece.  Oh, 
you  extravagant  Harry!" 

Sir  Harry  laughed  as  he  balanced  the  fan  clumsily 
on  his  huge  finger: 

44  Take  it;  you  are  very  welcome,  Miss  Mat  tie. 
You  know  we  are  quite  old  acquaintances;  and,  in- 
deed, I  look  on  you  as  a  sort  of  cousin." 

44Oh,  dear!  thank  you;  you  are  very  good,  Sir 
Harry,"  cried  poor  Mattie,  blushing  with  pleasure. 
Never  had  she  spent  such  a  day  in  her  life — a 
day  wherein  she  had  not  been  once  snubbed,  except 
in  that  remark  of  Archie's  about  her  collar,  and 
that  did  not  matter. 

44 Poor  little  woman,  she  looks  very  happy!"  ob- 
served Mrs.  Challoner,  benevolently,  as  Mattie 
gathered  up  her  spoils  and  went  out  of  the  room, 
accompanied  by  Dulce.  <4She  is  such  a  good  little 
soul,  and  so  amiable,  that  it  is  a  pity  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  is  always  finding  fault  with  her.  It  spoils 
him,  somehow;  and  I  am  sure  she  bears  it  very 
well."  She  spoke  to  Nan,  for  her  nephew  seemed 
engrossed  with  tying  tip  Laddie's  front  paw  with 
his  handkerchief. 

44 1  am  afraid,  from  what  she  says,  that  they  all 
snub  her  at  home,"  returned  Nan.  44It  seems 
Grace  is  the  favorite;  but  you  know,  mother,  Mattie 
is  just  a  little  tiresome  and  awkward  at  times." 

4 'Yes;  but  she  is  very  much  improved.  And  I 
must  say  her  temper  is  of  the  sweetest;  for  she 
never  bears  her  brother  any  malice."  But  at  that 
moment  Mattie  re-entered  the  room,  z~A  Sir  Harry, 
releasing  Laddie,  proceeded,  as  in  duty  bound,  to 
escort  her  to  the  vicarage. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  441 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

SIR    HARRY    BIDES    HIS    TIME. 

Phillis  might  have  spared  herself  that  little  out- 
burst to  which  she  had  given  vent  on  the  day  of  her 
cousin's  arrival.  For,  in  spite  of  the  lordly  way  in 
which  he  had  claimed  his  prerogative  as  the  only 
male  Challoner,  Sir  Harry  took  no  further  steps  to 
interfere  with  her  liberty:  indeed,  as  the  days  and 
even  the  weeks  passed  away,  and  nothing  particular 
happened  in  .  them,  she  was  even  a  little  disap- 
pointed. 

For  it  is  one  thing  to  foster  heroic  intentions,  but 
quite  another  when  one  has  no  choice  in  the  mat- 
ter. The  heroism  seemed  lost,  somehow,  when  no 
one  took  the  trouble  to  combat  her  resolution. 
Phillis  began  to  tire  of  her  work — nay,  more,  to  feel 
positive  disgust  at  it.  The  merry  evenings  gave 
her  a  distaste  for  her  morning  labors,  and  the  day- 
light seemed  sometimes  as  though  it  would  never 
fade  into  dark,  so  as  to  give  her  an  excuse  for  fold- 
ing up  her  work. 

These  fits  of  impatience  were  intermittent,  and 
she  spoke  of  them  to  no  one;  in  other  respects  the 
new  cousin  brought  a  great  deal  of  brightness  and 
pleasure  into  their  daily  life. 

They  all  grew  very  fond  of  him  Mrs  Challoner, 
indeed,  was  soon  heard  to  say  she  almost  loved  him 
like  a  son — a  speech  that  reached  Dick's  ears  by 
and  by,  and  made  him  excessively  angry.  "I  should 
like  to  kick  that  fellow,"  he  growled,  as  he  read 
the  words.  But,  then,  Dick  never  liked  interlopers. 
He  had  conceived  a  hatred  of  Mr.  Drummond  on 
the  spot.  Sir  Harry  took  up  his  quarters  at  the 
same  hotel  where  Dick  and  his  father  had  spent  that 
one  dreary  evening.  He  gave  lavish  orders  and 
excited  a  great  deal  of  attention  and  talk  by  his 


442  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

careless  munificence.  Without  being  positively  ex- 
travagant, he  nad  a  free-handed  way  of  spending 
his  money;  as  he  often  said,  "he  liked  to  see  things 
comfortable  about  him."  And,  as  his  notions  of 
comfort  were  somewhat  expensive,  his  host  soon 
conceived  a  great  respect  for  him — all  the  more 
that  he  gave  himself  no  airs,  never  talked  about  his 
wealth,  except  to  his  cousins,  and  treated  his  title 
as  though  it  were  not  of  the  slightest  consequence 
to  himself  or  any  one  else;  indeed,  he  was  de- 
cidedly modest  in  all  matters  pertaining  to  him- 
self. 

But,  being  a  generous  soul,  he  loved  to  give. 
Every  few  days  he  went  up  to  London,  and  he 
never  returned  without  bringing  gifts  to  the  Friary. 
Dulce,  who  was  from  the  first  his  chief  favorite, 
reveled  in  French  bonbons;  hampers  of  wine,  of 
choice  game,  or  fruit  from  Covent  Garden,  filled 
the  tiny  larder  to  overflowing.  Silks  and  ribbons, 
and  odds  and  ends  of  female  finery,  were  sent  down 
from  Marshall  &  Snelgrove's,  or  Swan  &  Edgar's. 
In  vain  Mrs.  Challoner  implored  him  not  to  spoil 
the  girls,  wno  had  never  had  so  many  pretty  things 
in  their  lives,  and  hardly  knew  what  to  do  with 
them.  Sir  Harry  would  not  deny  himself  this 
pleasure,  and  he  came  up  evening  after  evening, 
overflowing  with  health  and  spirits,  to  join  the 
family  circle  in  the  small  parlor  and  enliven  them 
wnh  his  stories  of  colonial  life. 

People  began  to  talk  about  him.  He  was  too  big 
and  too  prominent  a  figure  to  pass  unnoticed  in 
Hadleigh.  The  Challoners  and  their  odd  ways, 
and  their  cousin  the  baronet  who  was  a  millionaire 
and  unmarried,  were  canvassed  in  many  a  drawing- 
room.  "We  always  knew  they  were  not  just  'no- 
bodies,* "  as  one  young  lady  observed;  and  another 
remarked,  a  little  scornfully,  "that  she  supposed 
Sir  Henry  Challoner  would  put  a  stop  to  all  that 
ridiculous  dressmaking  now."  But  when  they 
found  that  Nan  and  Phillis  went  about  as  usual, 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  443 

taking  orders  and  fitting  on  dresses,  their  astonish- 
ment knew  no  bounds. 

Sir  Harry  watched  them  with  a  secret  chuckle. 
4 'He  must  put  a  stop  to  all  that  presently,"  he  said; 
but  just  at  first  it  amused  him  to  see  it  all.  "It  was 
so  pretty  and  plucky  of  them,"  he  thought. 

He  would  saunter  into  the  work  room  in  the 
morning,  and  watch  them  for  an  hour  together  as 
he  sat  and  talked  to  them.  After  the  first  they 
never  minded  him,  and  his  presence  made  no  differ- 
ence to  them.  Nan  measured  and  cut  out,  and  con- 
sulted Phillis  in  her  difficulties,  as  usual.  Dulce 
sang  over  her  sewing-machine,  and  Phillis  went 
from  one  to  the  other  with  a  grave,  intent  face. 
Sometimes  she  would  speak  petulantly  to  him,  and 
bid  him  not  whistle  or  tease  Laddie;  but  that  was 
when  one  of  her  fits  of  impatience  was  on  her.  She 
was  generally  gracious  to  him,  and  made  him  wel- 
come. 

When  he  was  tired  of  sitting  quiet,  he  would  take 
refuge  with  Aunt  Catherine  in  her  little  parlor,  or 
go  into  the  vicarage  for  a  chat  with  Mattie  and  her 
brother:  he  was  becoming  very  intimate  there. 
Sometimes,  but  not  often,  he  would  call  at  the 
White  House;  but,  though  the  Cheynes  liked  him, 
and  Magdalene  was  amused  at  his  simplicity,  there 
was  not  much  in  common  between  them. 

He  had  taken  a  liking  to  Colonel  Middleton  and 
his  daughter,  and  would  have  found  his  way  to 
Brooklyn  over  and  over  again,  only  the  colonel  gave 
him  no  encouragement.  They  had  met  accidentally 
in  the  grounds  of  the  White  House,  and  Mr 
Cheyne  had  introduced  them  to  each  other;  but 
the  colonel  bore  himself  very  stiffly  on  that  occasion 
and  ever  after  when  they  met  on  the  Parade  and  in 
the  reading-room.  In  his  heart  he  was  secretly 
attracted  by  Sir  Harry's  blunt  ways  and  honest 
face;  but  he  was  a  cousin  of  those  Challoners,  and 
intimacy  was  not  to  be  desired ;  so  their  intercourse 
was  limited  to  a  brief  word  or  two. 


444  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

44 Your  father  does  not  want  to  know  me,"  he  said 
once,  in  his  outspoken  way,  to  Miss  Middleton, 
when  they  met  at  the  very  gate  of  Brooklyn,  and 
she  had  asked  him,  with  some  little  hesitation,  if 
he  were  coming  in.  4tlt  is  a  pity,"  he  added,  re- 
gretfully, "for  1  have  taken  a  fancy  to  him;  he 
seems  a  downright  good  sort,  and  we  agree  in 
politics." 

Elizabeth  blushed:  for  once  her  courtesy  and  love 
of  truth  were  sadly  at  variance. 

44 He  does  like  you  very  much,  Sir  Harry,"  she 
said;  and  then  she  hesitated. 

"Only  my  cousins  sew  gowns, "  he  returned,  with 
a  twinkle  ot  amusement  in  his  eyes,  "so  he  must 
not  encourage  me — eh,  Miss  Middleton?  as  we  are 
all  in  the  same  boat.  Well,  we  must  allow  for  pre- 
judices By  and  by  we  will  alter  all  that." 

And  then  he  gave  her  a  good-natured  nod,  and 
sauntered  away  to  tell  his  old  friend  Mattie  all  about 
it;  for  he  had  a  kindly  feeling  toward  the  little 
woman,  and  made  her  his  confidante  on  these  occa- 
sions. 

Phillis  still  called  him  Alcides,  to  his  endless  mysti- 
fication; but  she  privately  wondered  when  his  labors 
were  to  begin.  After  that  first  afternoon  he  did 
not  speak  much  of  his  future  intentions:  indeed,  he 
was  a  little  reserved  with  the  girls,  considering 
their  intimacy;  but  to  his  aunt  he  was  less  reticent. 

44 Do  you  know,  Aunt  Catherine,"  he  said  one  day 
to  her,  44that  that  old  house  of  yours — Glen  Cottage, 
is  it  not? — will  soon  be  in  the  market?  Ibbetson 
wants  to  get  off  the  remainder  of  the  lease." 

Mrs  Challoner  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  put 
down  her  knitting: 

44Are  you  sure,  Harry?  Then  Adelaide  was 
right:  she  told  me  in  her  last  letter  that  Mrs.  Ibbet- 
son's  health  was  so  bad  that  they  thought  of  winter- 
ing at  Hyeres,  and  that  there  was  some  talk  of 
giving  up  the  house. " 

44 Oh,   yes,   it  is  true,"   he  returned,    carelessly: 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  445 

"Ibbetson  told  me  so  himself.  It  is  a  pretty  little 
place  enough,  and  they  have  done  a  good  deal  to  it, 
even  in  a  few  months:  they  want  to  get  off  the 
lease,  and  rid  themselves  of  the  furniture,  which 
seems  to  be  all  new.  It  appears  they  have  had 
some  money  left  to  them  unexpectedly;  and  now 
Mrs.  Ibbetson's  health  is  so  bad,  he  wants  to  try 
traveling,  and  thinks  it  a  great  pity  to  be  hampered 
with  a  house  at  present.  1  should  say  the  poor 
little  woman  is  in  a  bad  way,  myself." 

"Dear  me,  how  sad!  And  they  have  been  mar- 
ried so  short  a  time — not  more  than  six  months. 
She  cornes  of  a  weakly  stock,  I  fear.  1  always  said 
she  looked  consumptive,  poor  thing!  Dear  little 
Glen  Cottage  5  and  to  think  it  will  change  hands  so 
soon  again!" 

"You  seem  fond  of  it,  Aunt  Catherine,"  for  her 
tone  was  full  of  regret. 

"My  dear,"  she  answered,  seriously,  "I  always 
loved  that  cottage  so!  The  drawing-room  and  the 
garden  were  just  to  my  taste;  and  then  the  girls 
were  so  happy  there." 

"Would  you  not  like  a  grander  house  to  live  in?" 
he  asked,  in  the  same  indifferent  tone.  "I  do  not 
think  it  is  hnlf  good  enough  for  you  and  the  girls/' 

Mrs.  Chailoner  opened  her  eyes  rather  widely  at 
.his:  but  his  voice  gave  her  no  clew  to  his  real 
meaning,  and  she  thought  it  was  just  his  joking 
way. 

"It  would  seem  a  palace  after  this!"  she  returned, 
with  a  sigh.  "Somehow  I  never  cared  for  great 
big  houses;  they  are  so  much  expense  to  keep  up; 
and  when  one  has  not  a  man  in  the  house — " 

"Why,  you  have  me,  Aunt  Catherine!"  speaking 
up  rather  briskly. 

"Yes,  my  dear;  and  you  are  a  great  comfort  to 
us  all.  It  is  so  nice  to  have  some  one  to  consult; 
and,  though  I  would  not  say  so  to  Nan  for  the  world, 
Dick  is  so  young  that  I  never  could  consult  him." 

"By  the  bye,  that  reminds  me,  I  must  have  a  look 


446  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

at  that  young  fellow/'  returned  her  nephew.  "Let 
me  see,  the  Oxford  term  is  over,  and  he  will  be 
home  again.  Suppose  I  run  over  to  Oldfield — it  is 
no  distance  from  town — and  leave  my  card  on  Mr. 
Mayne  senior?" 

"You,  Harry!"  And  Mrs.  Challener  looked  quite 
taken  aback  at  the  proposition. 

"Well,"  he  remarked,  candidly,  "I  think  it  is 
about  time  something  was  done:  Nan  looks  awfully 
serious  sometimes.  What  is  the  good  of  being  the 
head  of  one's  family,  if  one  is  not  to  settle  an 
affair  like  that?  I  don't  feel  inclined  to  put  up  with 
any  more  nonsense  in  that  quarter,  I  can  tell  you 
that,  Aunt  Catherine." 

"But,  Harry,"  growing  visibly  alarmed,  "you  do 
not  know  Mr.  Mayne:  he  can  make  himself  so  ex- 
cessively disagreeable. " 

"So  can  most  men  when  they  like." 

"Yes;  but  not  exactly  in  that  way.  I  believe 
he  is  really  very  fond  of  Dick,  but  he  wants  to 
order  his  life  in  his  own  way,  and  no  young  man 
will  stand  that." 

4  No,  by  Jove!  that  is  rather  too  strong  for  a  fel- 
low. I  should  say  Master  Dick  could  not  put  up 
with  that." 

"It  seems  my  poor  Nan  is  not  good  enough  for 
his  son,  just  because  she  has  no  money  and  has 
been  obliged  to  make  herself  useful.  Does  it  not 
seem  hard,  Harry?  my  beautifal  Nan!  And  the 
Maynes  are  just  nobodies:  why,  Mr.  Mayne's 
father  was  only  a  shopkeeper  in  a  very  small  way, 
and  his  wife's  family  was  no  better!" 

"Well,  you  must  not  expect  me  to  understand  all 
that,"  replied  her  nephew,  in  a  puzzled  tone.  "In 
the  colonies,  we  did  not  think  much  about  that  sort 
of  thing:  it  would  not  have  done  there  to  inquire 
too  narrowly  into  a  man's  antecedents.  I  knew 
capital  fellows  whose  fathers  had  been  butchers, 
bakers,  and  candlestick-makers;  and,  bless  me! 
what  does  it  matter,  if  the  fellow  is  all  right  him- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  447 

self?"  he  finished,  for  the  last  Challoner  was  a 
decided  Radical. 

But  Mrs.  Challoner,  who  was  mildly  obstinate  in 
such  matters,  would  not  yield  her  point: 

"You  would  think  differently  if  you  nad  been 
educated  at  Eton.  In  England,  it  is  necessary  to 
discriminate  among  one's  acquaintances.  I  find  no 
fault  with  Dick;  he  is  as  nice  and  gentlemanly  as 
possible;  but  his  father  has  not  got  his  good  breed- 
ing: possibly  he  has  not  his  advantages.  But  it  is 
they,  the  Maynes,  who  would  be  honored  by  an 
alliance  with  one  of  my  daughters."  And  Mrs. 
Challoner  raised  her  head  and  drew  herself  up  with 
such  queenly  dignity  that  Sir  Harry  dared  not 
argue  the  point. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  see,"  he  returned,  hastily.  "Well, 
I  shall  let  him  know  what  you  think.  You  need 
not  be  afraid  I  shall  lower  your  dignity,  Aunt 
Catherine.  I  meant  to  be  rather  high  and  mighty 
myself — that  is,  if  I  could  manage  it."  And  he 
broke  into  one  of  his  huge  laughs, 

Mrs.  Challoner  was  very  fond  of  her  nephew; 
but  she  was  not  a  clever  woman,  and  she  did  not 
always  understand  his  hints.  When  they  were 
alone  together,  he  was  perpetually  making  this 
sort  of  remarks  to  her  in  a  half-serious,  half  joking 
way,  eliciting  her  opinions,  consulting  her  tastes, 
with  a  view  to  his  future  plans. 

With  the  girls  he  was  provokingly  reticent.  Phil- 
lis  and  Dulce  used  to  catechise  him  sometimes,  but 
his  replies  were  always  evasive. 

"Do  you  know,  Harry,"  Phillis  said  to  him  once, 
very  gravely,  "I  think  you  are  leading  a  dreadfully 
idle  life?  You  do  nothing  absolutely  all  day  but 
walk  to  and  fro  between  the  hotel  and  the 
Friary." 

"Come,  now,"  retorted  her  cousin,  in  an  injured 
tone;  "I  call  that  confoundedly  hard  on  a  fellow 
who  has  come  all  these  thousands  of  miles  just  to 
cultivate  his  relations  and  enjoy  a  little  relaxation. 


448  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Have  I  not  worked  hard  enough  all  my  life  to  earn 
a  holiday  now?" 

"Oh,  yes/'  she  returned,  provokingly;  "we  all 
know  how  hard  you  have  worked;  but  all  the  same 
it  does  not  do  to  play  at  idleness  too  long.  You 
are  very  much  improved,  Harry.-  Your  tailor  has 
done  wonders  for  you;  and  I  should  not  be  ashumed 
to  walk  down  Bond  Street  with  you  any  afternoon, 
though  the  people  do  stare,  because  you  are  so  bipr, 
But  don't  you  think  it  is  time  to  settle  down?  You 
might  take  rooms  somewhere.  Lord  Fitzroy  knows 
of  some  capital  ones  in  Sackville  Street;  Algie 
Burgoyne  had  them." 

44  Well,  no,  thank  you,  Phillis;  I  don't  think  I 
shall  go  in  for  rooms." 

44 We  11,  then,  a  house:  you  know  you  are  so  exces- 
sively rich,  Harry,"  drawing  out  her  words  in  im- 
itation of  his  rather  slow  pA  ^unoiation. 

"Oh,  of  course  I  shall  take  a  house;  but  there  is 
plenty  of  time  for  that." 

And  when  she  pressed  him  somewhat  eagerly  to 
tell  her  in  what  neighborhood  he  meant  to  live, 
he  only  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  remarked, 
carelessly,  that  he  would  have  a  look  round  at  all 
sorts  of  places  by  and  by. 

"But  do  you  mean  to  take  a  house  and  live  all 
alone?"  asked  Dulce.  "Won't  you  find  it  rather 
dull?" 

"What's  a  fellow  to  do?"  replied  her  cousin, 
enigmatically.  "I  suppose  Aunt  Catherine  will  not 
undertake  the  care  of  me?  I  am  too  big,  as  you 
call  it,  for  a  house  full  of  women!" 

"Well,  yes;  perhaps  you  are,"  she  replied,  con- 
templating him  thoughtfully.  "We  should  not 
know  quite  what  to  do  with  you." 

44 1  wish  I  could  get  rid  of  a  few  of  my  superfluous 
inches,"  he  remarked,  dolorously;'  "for  people 
seem  to  find  me  sadly  in  the  way  sometimes." 

But  Dulce  said,  kindly: 

"Oh,  no,   Harry;  we  never  find  you  in  the  way, 


NOT  LIKE  OTHFR  GIRLS.  449 

do  we,  mammie?  We  should  be  dreadfully  dull 
without  you  now.  I  can  hear  you  whistling  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  off,  and  it  sounds  so  cheerful.  If 
there  were  only  a  house  big  enough  for  you  next 
door,  that  would  do  nicely." 

"Oh  I  dare  say  I  shall  not  be  far  off;  shall  I, 
Aunt  Catherine?"  for,  to  his  aunt's  utter  bewilder- 
ment, he  had  established  a  sort  of  confidence  be- 
tween them,  and  expected  her  to  understand  all  his 
vague  hints.  "You  will  not  speak  about  this  to  the 
girls,  this  is  just  between  you  and  me/'  he  would 
say  to  her,  when  sometimes  she  had  not  a  notion  of 
what  he  meant. 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Harry,"  she  said,  once. 
"Why  did  you  stop  me  just  now  when  1  was  going 
to  tell  Phillis  about  the  Ibbetsons  leaving  Glen 
Cottage?  She  would  have  been  so  interested." 

"You  must  keep  that  to  yourself  a  little  while, 
Aunt  Catherine:  it  will  be  such  a  surprise  to  the 
girls,  you  know.  Did  I  tell  you  about  the  new  con- 
servatory Ibbetson  has  built?  It  leads  out  of  the 
drawing-room,  and  improves  the  room  wonderfully, 
they  say." 

"My  dear  Harry!  what  an  expense!  That  is  just 
what  Mr.  Mayne  was  always  wanting  us  to  do;  and 
Nan  was  so  fond  of  flowers.  It  was  just  what  the 
room  needed  to  make  it  perfect."  And  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner  folded  her  hands,  with  a  sigh  at  the  remem- 
brance of  the  house  she  had  loved  so  dearly. 

"They  say  Gilsbank  is  for  sale,"  remarked  her 
nephew,  rather  suddenly,  after  this. 

"What!  Gilsbank:,  where  old  Admiral  Hawkins 
lived?  Nan  saw  the  announcement  of  his  death 
the  other  day,  and  she  said  then  the  place  would 
soon  be  put  up  for  sale.  Poor  old  man!  He  was  a 
martyr  to  gout." 

"I  had  a  look  at  it  the  other  day,"  he  replied, 
coolly.  "Why,  it  is  not  a  hundred  yards  from  your 
old  cottage.  There  is  a  tidy  bit  of  land,  and  the 
house  is  not  so  bad,  only  it  wants  doing  up;  but 

29  Girls, 


450  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

the  furniture —that  is  for  sale  too — is  very  old-fash- 
ioned and  shabby. " 

"Are  you  thinking  of  it  for  yourself?"  asked  his 
aunt,  in  surprise.  "Why,  Gilsbank  is  a  large  place; 
it  would  never  do  for  a  single  man.  You  would 
find  the  rooms  Phillis  proposed  far  handier." 

"Wny,  Aunt  Catherine!"  in  a  tone  of  strong 
remonstrance.  "You  don't  mean  to  condemn  me 
to  a  life  of  single  blessedness  because  of  my  size?" 

"Oh,  Harry,  of  course  not!  My  dear  boy,  what 
an  idea!" 

"And  some  one  may  be  found  in  time  who  could 
put  up  even  with  red  hair." 

"Oh,  yes,  that  need  not  be  an  obstacle."  But 
she  looked  at  him  with  vague  alarm.  Of  whom 
could  he  be  thinking? 

He  caught  her  expression,  and  threw  back  his 
head  with  one  of  his  merry  laughs: 

"'Jh,  no,  Aunt  Catherine,  you  need  not  be  afraid. 
I  a'.n  not  going  to  make  love  to  any  of  my  cousins; 
I  know  your  views  on  the  subject,  and  that  would 
not  suit  my  book  at  all.  I  am  quite  on  your  side 
there." 

"Surely  you  will  tell,  my  dear,  if  you  are  seri- 
ous?" 

"Oh,  yes,  when  1  have  anything  to  tell;  but  I 
think  I  will  have  a  good  look  round  first. "  And 
then,  of  his  own  accord,  he  changed  the  subject. 
He  was  a  little  sparing  of  his  hints  after  that,  even 
to  his  aunt. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  that  he  came  into  the 
Friary  one  evening  and  electrified  his  cousins  by 
two  pieces  of  news.  He  had  just  called  at  the  vic- 
arage, he  said ;  but  he  had  not  gone  in,  for  Miss 
Mattie  had  run  downstairs  in  a  great  bustle  to  tell 
him  her  sister  Grace  had  just  arrived.  Her  brother 
had  been  down  to  Leeds  and  brought  her  up  with 
him.  Phillis  put  down  her  work,  her  face  had  be- 
come suddenly  rather  pale. 

"Grace  has  come,"  she  half  whispered  to  herself. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  451 

And  then  she  added  aloud,  "Poor  Mattie  will  be; 
glad,  and  sorry  too!  She  will  like  to  have  her  sister 
with  her  for  the  New  Year;  but  in  a  few  weeks  she 
will  have  to  pack  up  her  own  things  and  go  home. 
And  she  was  only  saying  the  other  day  that  she  has 
never  been  so  happy  in  her  life  as  she  has  been 
here. ' ' 

"Why  can't  she  stay,  then?"  asked  Sir  Harry, 
rather  abruptly.  "I  don't  hold  with  people  making 
themselves  miserable  for  nothing;  that  does  not 
belong  to  my  creed." 

"Oh,  poor  Mattie  has  not  a  choice  in  the  matter," 
returned  Nan,  who  had  grown  very  fond  of  her 
little  neighbor.  "Though  she  is  thirty,  she  must 
still  do  as  other  people  bid  her.  They  cannot  both 
be  spared  from  home — at  least,  I  believe  not — and 
so  her  mother  has  recalled  her. " 

"Oh,  but  that  is  nonsense,"  replied  Sir  Harry, 
rather  crossly  for  him.  "Girls  are  spared  well 
enough  when  they  are  married.  And  I  thought  the 
Drummonds  were  not  well  off.  Did  not  Phillis  tell 
me  so?" 

"They  are  very  badly  off;  but  then,  you  see,  Mr. 
Drummond  does  not  want  two  sisters  to  take  care  of 
his  house ;  and,  though  he  tries  to  be  good  to  Mattie, 
he  is  not  so  fond  of  her  as  he  is  of  his  sister  Grace, 
andthey  have  always  planned  to  live  together,  and 
so  poor  Mattie  has  to  go. " 

"Yes,  and  I  must  say  I  am  sorry  for  the  poor  little 
woman,"  observed  Mrs.  Challoner.  "There  is  a 
large  family  of  girls  and  boys — I  think  Mr.  Drum- 
mond told  us  he  had  seven  sisters— and  Mattie  seems 
left  out  in  the  cold  among  them  all;  they  laugh  at 
her  oddities,  and  quiz  her  most  unmercifully;  even 
Mr.  Drummond  does,  and  Nan  scolds  him  for  it; 
but  he  has  not  been  so  bad  lately.  It  is  rather  hard 
that  none  of  them  seems  to  want  her." 

"You  forget  Grace  is  very  good  to  her,  mother," 
broke  in  Phillis,  somewhat  eagerly.  "Mattie 
always  says  so." 


452  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"By  the  by,  I  must  have  a  look  at  this  paragon. 
Is  not  her  name  among  those  in  my  pocket  book?" 
returned  her  cousin,  wickedly.  "I  saw  Miss  Sartoris 
at  Oldfield  that  day,  and  she  was  too  grand  for  my 
taste.  Why,  a  fellow  would  never  dare  speak  to 
her.  I  have  scored  that  one  off  the  list,  Phillis. " 

"  My  dears,  what  have  you  been  saying  to  Harry?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  maminie,"  returned  Dulce,  hastily, 
fearing  her  mother  would  be  shocked.  "Phillis  was 
only  in  her  nonsense  mood;  but  Harry  is  such  a 
goose,  and  will  take  things  seriously.  I  wish  you 
would  let  me  have  your  pocketbook  a  moment,  and 
I  would  tear  out  the  page."  But  Sir  Harry  re- 
turned it  safely  to  his  pocket. 

"What  was  your  other  piece  of  news?"  asked 
Nan  in  her  quiet  voice,  when  all  this  chatter  had 
subsided. 

"Oh,  I  had  almost  forgotten  it  myself!  only  Miss 
Middleton  charged  me  to  tell  you  that  'son  Ham- 
mond' has  arrived  by  the  P.  and  O.  steamer  the 
'Cerberus, '  and  that  she  and  her  father  were  just 
starting  for  Southampton  to  meet  him." 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

"COME  NOW,  i  CALL  THAT  HARD." 

Phillis  was  unusually  silent  during  the  remainder 
of  the  evening:  but,  as  she  bade  Nan  good  night  at 
the  door  of  her  little  room,  she  lingered  a  moment, 
shading  the  flame  of  her  candle  with  her  hand. 

"Do  you  think  Mattie  will  bring  her  sister  round 
to  see  us  to-morrow?"  she  asked,  in  a  very  low 
tone. 

"Oh,  yes — I  am  sure  I  hope  so,"  returned  Nan, 
sleepily,  not  noticing  the  restrained  eagerness  of 
Phillis's  manner.  "We  can  hardly  call  first,  under 
our  present  circumstances  Mr.  Drummond  knows 
that."  And  Phillis  withdrew,  as  though  she  vr"*^ 
satisfied  with  the  answer. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  453 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  the  subject;  and  they 
settled  themselves  to  their  work  as  usual  on  the 
following  morning,  Dulce  chattering  and  singing 
snatches  of  songs — for  she  was  a  most  merry  little 
soul — Nan  cheerful  and  ready  for  conversation  with 
any  one;  but  PhilHs  withdrew  herself  to  the  fur- 
thest window  and  stitched  away  in  grave  silence. 
And,  seeing  such  was  her  mood,  her  sisters  wisely 
forbore  to  disturb  her. 

At  twelve  o'clock  the  gate  bell  sounded,  and 
Dulce,  who  hailed  any  interruption  as  a  joyful  re- 
prieve, announced  delightedly  that  Mattie  and  a  tall 
young  lady  were  coming  up  the  flagged  walk;  and 
in  an  instant  Phillis's  work  lay  untouched  on  her 
lap. 

"Are  you  all  here?  Oh,  dear,  I  am  so  glad!"  ex- 
claimed Mattie,  bustling  into  the  room  with  a  radi- 
ant face.  "I  have  brought  Grace  to  see  you,  she 
arrived  last  night."  And  in  a  moment  the  young 
stranger  was  surrounded  and  welcomed  most 
cordially. 

PhilHs  looked  at  her  curiously  for  a  moment,  in- 
deed, during  the  whole  visit  her  eyes  rested  upon 
Grace's  face  from  time  to  time,  as  though  she  were 
studying  her.  She  had  heard  so  much  of  this  girl 
that  she  had  almost  feared  to  be  disappointed  in 
her;  but  every  moment  her  interest  increased. 

Grace  Drummond  was  not  a  pretty  girl — with  the 
exception  of  Isabel  and  the  boys,  the  Drummond 
family  had  not  the  slightest  pretension  to  beauty — 
but  she  was  fair  and  tranquil  looking,  and  her 
expression  was  gentle  and  full  of  character.  She 
had  very  soft,  clear  eyes,  with  a  trace  of  sadness  in 
them;  but  her  lips  were  thin— like  her  mother's — 
and  closed  firmly,  and  the  chin  was  a  little  massively 
cut  for  a  woman. 

In  looking  at  the  lower  part  of  this  girl's  face,  a 
keen  observer  would  read  the  tenacity  of  a  strong 
will ;  but  the  eyes  had  the  appealing  softness  that 
one  sees  in  some  dumb  creatures. 


454  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

They  won  Phillis  at  once.  After  the  first 
moment,  her  reserved  manner  thawed  and  became 
gracious;  and  before  half  an  hour  passed  she  and 
Grace  were  talking  as  though  they  had  known  each 
other  all  their  lives. 

Nan  watched  them  smilingly  as  she  chatted  with 
Mattie;  she  knew  her  sister  was  fastidious  in  her 
likings,  and  that  she  did  not  take  to  people  easily. 
Phillis  was  pleasant  to  all  her  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances; but  she  was  rarely  intimate  with  them,  as 
Nan  and  Dulce  were  wont  to  be.  She  held  her 
head  a  little  high,  as  though  she  felt  her  own  supe- 
riority 

44 Phillis  is  very  amusing  and  clever;  but  one  does 
not  know  her  as  well  as  Nan  and  Dulce,"  even 
Carrie  Paine  had  been  heard  to  say,  and  certainly 
Phillis  had  never  talked  to  Carrie  as  she  did  to  this 
stranger. 

Grace  was  just  as  much  charmed  on  her  side.  On 
her  return,  she  delighted  and  yet  pained  her 
brother  by  her  warm  praises  of  his  favorites. 

4 'Oh,  Archie!"  she  exclaimed,  as  they  sat  at 
luncheon  in  the  old  wainscoted  dining-room  at  the 
vicarage,  "you  are  quite  right  in  saying  the  Chal- 
loners  are  not  like  any  other  girls.  They  are  all 
three  so  nice  and  pretty.  But  the  second — Miss 
Phillis- — is  most  to  my  taste." 

Archie  checked  an  involuntary  exclamation,  but 
Mattie  covered  it. 

44 Dear  me,  Grace!"  she  observed,  innocently,  44I 
rather  wonder  at  your  saying  that.  Nan  is  by  far 
the  prettiest,  is  she  not,  Archie?  Her  complexion 
and  coloring  are  perfect/* 

44Oh,  yes!  if  you  are  talking  of  mere  looks,  I 
cannot  dispute  that,"  returned  Grace,  a  little  impa- 
tiently; 44but  in  my  opinion  there  is  far  more  in  her 
sister's  face;  she  has  the  beauty  of  expression,  which 
is  far  higher  than  that  of  form  or  corloring  I 
should  say  she  has  far  more  character  than  either 
of  them." 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  455 

"They  are  none  of  them  wanting  in  that,"  replied 
Archie,  breaking  up  his  bread  absently. 

"No,  that's  just  what  I  say;  they  are  perfectly 
unlike  other  girls.  They  are  so  fresh  and  simple 
and  unconscious  that  it  is  quite  a  pleasure  to  be 
with  them;  but  if  I  were  to  choose  a  friend  from 
among  them  I  should  certainly  select  Miss  Phillis." 
And  to  this  her  brother  made  no  reply. 

"They  are  all  so  pleased  about  Tuesday,"  inter- 
rupted Mattie,  at  this  point — "Nan  was  so  inter- 
ested and  amused  about  my  grand  tea-party,  as  she 
called  it.  They  have  all  promised  to  come,  only 
Mrs.  Challoner's  cold  will  not  allow  her  to  go  out 
this  severe  weather.  And  then  we  met  Sir  Harry, 
and  I  introduced  him  to  Grace,  and  he  will  be 
delighted  to  come,  too.  1  wish  you  would  let  me 
ask  Miss  Middleton  and  her  brother,  Archie;  and 
then  we  should  be  such  a  nice  little  party." 

"How  can  you  be  so  absuid,  Mattie?"  returned 
Archie,  with  a  touch  of  his  old  irritability.  "A  nice 
confusion  you  would  make,  if  you  were  left  to 
arrange  things!  You  know  the  colonel's  one  object 
in  life  is  to  prevent  his  son  from  having  any  inter- 
course with  the  Challoners,  and  you  would  ask  him 
to  meet  them  the  first  evening  after  his  arrival  in 
the  place." 

"Is  the  father  so  narrow  in  his  prejudices  as 
that?"  asked  Grace,  who  had  quite  forgotten  her 
own  shocked  feeling  when  she  first  heard  that 
Archie  was  visiting  a  family  of  dressmakers  on 
equal  terms. 

"Oh,  dear!  I  forgot,"  sighed  Mattie,  taking  her 
brother's  blame  meekly,  as  usual.  "How  very 
stupid  of  me!  But  would  you  not  like  the  Cheynes 
or  the  Leslies  invited,  Archie?  Grace  ought  to  be 
introduced  to  some  of  the  best  people." 

"You  may  leave  Grace  to  me,  "returned  her 
brother,  somewhat  haughtily,"!  will  take  care  of  her 
introductions  As  for  your  tea-party,  Mattie,  I 
shall  be  much  obliged  if  you  will  keep  it  within  its 


456  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

first  limits — just  the  Challoners  and  Sir  Harry.  It 
any  one  be  asked,  it  ought  to  be  Noel  Frere;  he  has 
rather  a  dull  time  of  it,  living  alone  in  lodgings" — 
the  Rev.  Noel  Frere  being  a  college  chum  of 
Archie,  who  had  come  down  to  Hadleigh  to  recruit 
himself  by  a  month  or  two  of  idleness.  " Perhaps  we 
had  better  have  him,  as  there  will  be  so  many 
ladies." 

4 'Oh,  yes,  of  course!  He  is  so  nice  and  clever," 
observed  Grace,  not  noticing  the  shade  on  Mattie's 
face.  "How  pleased  you  must  be  to  have  him 
staying  here  so  long,  Archie!  you  two  were  always 
such  friends. " 

"He  comes  nearly  every  evening,  "returned  Mat- 
tie,  disconsolately.  "He  may  suit  you,  Grace,  be- 
cause you  are  clever  yourself;  but  I  am  dreadfully 
afraid  of  him,  he  is  so  dry  and  sarcastic.  Must  he 
really  be  asked  for  7  aesday,  Archie?" 

"Yes,  indeed;  you  ought  to  have  thought  of  him 
first.  I  am  sorry  for  your  bad  taste,  Mattie,  if 
you  do  not  do  like  Frere;  he  is  a  splendid  fellow, 
though  terribly  delicate,  I  fear.  Now,  Gracie,  if 
we  have  finished  luncheon,  I  should  like  you  to  put 
on  your  wraps,  and  I  will  show  you  some  of  my 
favorite  haunts;  and  perhaps  we  shall  meet  Frere." 

Grace  hesitated  for  a  moment.  She  thought 
Archie  would  have  included  Mattie  in  his  invitation; 
but  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  she  knew  him 
too  well  to  suggest  such  a  thing. 

"Good-bye,  Mattie  dear.  I  hope  you  will  have 
some  tea  ready  for  us  when  we  come  back,"  she 
said,  kissing  her  sister  affectionately,  but  they 
neither  of  them  noticed  the  pained  wistfulness  of 
Mattie's  look  as  the  door  closed  upon  them. 

They  were  going  out  without  her,  and  on  Grace's 
first  daj7*,  too.  Archie  was  going  to  show  her  the 
church,  and  the  schools,  and  the  model  cottages 
where  his  favorite  old  women  lived — all  those 
places  that  Mattie  had  visited  and  learned  to  love 
during  the  eight  months  she  had  lived  with  her 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  457 

brother.  In  a  few  weeks  she  must  say  good-bye  to 
them  all,  and  go  back  to  the  dull  old  house  at 
Leeds/ to  be  scolded  by  her  mother  for  her  awkward 
ways,  and  to  be  laughed  at  and  teased  by  her 
brothers  and  sisters.  Archie  was  bad  enough  some- 
times, but  then  he  was  Archie,  and  had  a  right  to 
his  bad  humors;  but  with  the  boys  and  girls  it  was 
less  endurable.  It  was,  "Oh,  you  stupid  old  Matt! 
Of  course  it  was  all  your  fault;"  or,  "Mattie,  you 
goose!"  from  Fred;  or,  "You  silly  child,  Mattie!' 
from  her  father,  who  found  her  a  less  amusing  com- 
panion than  Grace;  and  even  Dottie  would  say, 
"Oh,  it  is  only  Mattie;  I  never  care  if  she  scolds 
me/' 

The  home  atmosphere  was  a  little  depressing, 
Mattie  thought,  with  a  sigh,  dearly  as  she  loved  her 
young  torments.  She  knew  she  would  find  it  some- 
what trying,  after  these  eight  months  of  compara- 
tive freedom.  True,  Archie  had  snubbed  her  and 
kept  her  in  order;  but  one  tyrant  is  preferable  to 
many.  At  home  the  thirty-years'-old  Mattie  was 
only  one  of  the  many  daughters — the  old  maid  of 
the  family — the  unattractive  little  wall-flower  who 
was  condemned  to  wither  unnoticed  on  its  stalk. 
Here,  in  her  brother's  vicarage,  she  had  been  a 
person  of  consequence,  whom  only  the  master  of 
the  house  presumed  to  snubc 

The  maids  liked  their  good-natured  mistress,  who 
never  found  fault  with  them,  and  who  was  so  bust- 
ling and  clever  a  little  housekeeper.  The  poor  peo- 
ple and  the  school-children  liked  Mattie,  too.  14Our 
Miss  Drummond,"  they  called  her  for  a  long  time, 
rather  to  Grace's  discomfiture.  "Ah,  she  is  a  rare 
one,  when  a  body  is  low!"  as  old  Goody  Saunders 
once  said. 

And  Archie's  friends  respected  the  little  woman, 
in  spite  of  her  crudities  and  decidedly  odd  ways. 
Miss  Middleton  and  the  Challoners  were  quite  fond 
of  her.  So  no  wonder  Mattie  grew  low  at  the 
thought  of  leaving  her  friends. 

80  Other  Girls 


468  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Grace  had  come  to  take  her  place.  Nevertheless, 
she  had  welcomed  her  on  the  previous  evening  with 
the  utmost  cheerfulness  and  unselfishness.  She  had 
shown  her  the  house;  she  had  introduced  her  to  the 
Challoners;  she  had  overwhelmed  her  with  a  thou- 
sand little  attentions,  and  Grace  had  not  been  un- 
grateful. 

"I  am  afraid  this  is  hard  for  you,  Mattie,"  Grace 
had  said  to  her,  as  the  sisters  were  unpacking,  late 
the  previous  night.  "I  ought  not  to  be  so  happy  to 
come,  when  I  know  I  am  turning  you  out."  And 
Mattie  had  winked  away  a  tear  and  answered,  quite 
cheerily: 

"Oh,  no  Grace;  you  must  no  feel  that.  I  have 
had  a  nice  time,  and  enjoyed  myself  so  much  with 
dear  Archie,  and  now  it  is  your  turn;  and,  you 
know,  he  has  always  wanted  you  from  the  first." 

"Poor  dear  fellow!"  murmured  Grace;  "but  he 
looks  thin,  Mattie.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  be  here,  as 
he  wants  me;  but  I  shall  never  keep  his  house  as 
beautifully  as  you  have  done.  Mother  would  be 
astonished  if  she  saw  it."  And  this  piece  of  well- 
deserved  praise  went  far  to  console  Mattie  that 
night 

But  she  began  to  feel  just  a  little  sore  at  break- 
fast-time. Once  or  twice  Archie  decidedly  ignored 
her  and  turned  to  Grace;  he  even  brought  her  his 
gloves  to  mend,  though  Mattie  had  been  his  faithful 
mender  all  these  months. 

"Come  into  the  study,  and  we  will  have  a  talk, 
Grace,"  he  had  said,  and  as  Grace  had  involuntarily 
waited  for  her  sister  to  accompany  them,  he  had 
added,  hastily,  "Oh,  Mattie  is  always  busy  at  this 
time  with  butchers  and  bakers!  Come  along, 
Grace;"  and,  though  Mattie  had  no  such  business 
on  her  hands,  she  dared  not  join  them. 

It  was  only  when  a  parish  meeting  called  the 
young  vicar  away  that  Mattie  bethought  herself  of 
the  Challoners. 

Poor  Mattie !     Low  spirits  were  not  much  in  her 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  469 

line.  She  had  never  thought  enough  of  herself  to 
indulge  in  the  luxury  of  wounded  susceptibility — • 
the  atmosphere  that  surrounded  her  had  been  too 
rough  and  bracing  for  that;  but,  nevertheless,  this 
afternoon  she  longed  to  indulge  in  a  good  cry. 
Happily,  however,  before  the  first  tear  had  begun 
to  redden  her  eyelids — indeed,  she  hardly  got  her 
mouth  into  the  proper  pucker — a  vigorous  pull  at 
the  bell  warned  her  of  an  impending  visitor,  and 
immediately  afterward  Sir  Harry  marched  into  the 
room,  looking  ruddier  than  ever  with  the  cold  air 
and  exercise,  his  warm  coloring  kindling  a  glow  in 
the  room. 

His  heavy  footsteps  shook  the  old  flooring  of  the 
vicarage,  but  as  he  greeted  Mattie  he  looked  round 
him,  as  though  somewhat  surprised  to  find  her 
alone. 

44  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Mattie?  Why,  what  have 
you  done  with  your  sister?"  he  asked,  in  rather  a 
disappointed  tone.  *4I  came  to  have  a  chat  with 
you  both.'* 

Another  little  sting  for  Mattie;  he  had  only  come 
to  see  Grace. 

"She  has  gone  out  with  Archie,"  she  returned, 
in  a  subdued  voice.  "He  is  showing  her  the  church 
and  the  schools." 

44 1  was  up  at  the  Friary  just  now,"  he  said,  care- 
lessly, 44and  they  were  all  talking  about  your  sister, 
praising  her  up  to  the  skies.  What  an  odd  capacity 
women  have  for  falling  in  love  with  each  other  at 
first  sight!  Phillis  especially  seemed  very  far  gone. 
So  I  told  them  I  would  just  come  and  have  a  good 
look  at  this  paragon.  One  cannot  judge  of  a  person 
in  a  hat  and  veil." 

"I  am  sure  you  will  like  Grace,"  replied  Mattie, 
reviving  a  little  .at  the  idea  of  her  sister's  perfec- 
tions. 44She  is  not  pretty,  exactly,  though  Archie 
and  I  think  her  so;  but  she  is  so  nice  and  clever. 
Oh,  you  should  hear  those  two  talk!  it  is  perfectlv 
wonderful  to  listen  to  them!" 


460  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"It  strikes  me  you  are  a  little  left  out  in  the  cold 
aren't   you,  Miss  Mattie?"  asked  Sir  Harry,   with 
one  of  his  shrewd,  good-humored  looks.    "Why  did 
you  not  go  out  with  them?" 

"Oh,  Archie  never  wants  me  when  he  has 
Grace,"  answered  Mattie,  with  a  sudden  pang  at 
the  truthfulness  of  this  speech.  "They  have  always 
been  so  much  to  each  other,  those  two." 

"He  would  want  you  fast  enough  if  Miss  Grace — 
is  that  not  her  name? — were  to  marry  and  leave 
him  to  shift  for  himself ,"  was  the  somewhat  matter- 
of-fact  answer. 

But  Mattie  shook  her  head  at  this  with  a  faint 
smile : 

"Grace  will  never  marry.  She  would  not  leave 
Archie. 

"Oh,  but  that  is  nonsense,  do  you  know — sheer 
nonsense!  Many  girls  talk  like  that,  but  they  change 
their  mind  in  the  end.  Why,  the  parson  himself 
may  marry.  You  don't  suppose  a  good-looking 
fellow  like  that  intends  to  be  an  old  bachelor?  And 
then  what  will  Miss  Grace  do?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  am  afraid  she  will  miss  him 
dreadfully." 

"Oh,  but  she  will  get  over  it  all  right.  It  does 
not  do  to  make  a  fuss  over  that  sort  of  thing.  Sen- 
timentality between  brothers  and  sisters  is  all  very 
well  in  its  way,  but  it  won't  hold  against  a  wife's  or 
a  husband's  claims.  I  never  had  any  myself,  so  1 
don't  know,  but  I  find  it  precious  lonely  without 
them  That  is  why  I  have  adopted  my  cousins.  A 
man  must  care  for  some  one." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  echoed  Mattie,  with  a  sigh. 

"I  am  afraid  your  people  do  not  use  you  very 
well,  Miss  Mattie,"  he  went  on,  with  cheerful  sym- 
pathy that  was  quite  a  cordial  in  its  way.  "You 
look  at  bit  down  this  afternoon;  a  fellow  would  call 
it  the  blues,  and  he  would  be  thinking  of  a  cigar 
and  brandy  and  soda.  What  a  pity  women  don'f 
smoke!  it  is  no  end  soothing  to  the  spirits!" 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  461 

"We  have  got  afternoon  tea, "  returned  Mattie, 
beginning  to  smile  at  this. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  ring  and  order  some?"  he 
replied,  quite  seriously.  "Do,  please,  Miss  Mattie, 
if  it  will  put  a  little  heart  in  you.  Why,  I  should 
like  a  cup  myself  uncommonly.  There  never  was 
such  a  fellow  for  afternoon  tea."  And  then  Mattie 
did  ring  the  bell,  and,  Sir  Harry  having  stirred  the 
fire  into  a  cheerful  blaze,  and  the  little  brass  kettle 
beginning  to  sing  cheerily  on  its  trivet,  things  soon 
looked  more  comfortable. 

"Now  you  are  all  right,"  he  remarked,  presently. 
"You  look  quite  a  different  sort  of  body  now. 
When  I  first  came  in  you  reminded  me  of  Cinder- 
ella in  a  brown  dress,  sitting  all  alone  by  a  very 
black  fire.  I  do  believe  you  were  on  the  verge  of 
crying.  Now,  weren't  you,  Miss  Mattie?"  And 
Mattie,  with  much  shame,  owned  to  the  impeach- 
ment. 

"And  what  was  it  all  about,  eh?"  he  asked,  with 
such  a  coaxing  peremptoriness  that  Mattie  con- 
fessed that  she  was  rather  dull  at  the  thought  that 
nobody  wanted  her,  and  that  she  must  go  home; 
and,  on  being  further  pressed  and  questioned,  out  it 
all  came — Mattie's  shortcomings,  her  stupid  ways, 
and  the  provocation  she  offered  to  home  criticism. 
Sir  Harry  listened  and  laughed,  and  every  now  and 
then  threw  in  a  jesting  remark;  but  so  encouraging 
was  his  manner  and  so  evident  his  interest,  that 
Mattie  found  herself  talking  as  she  had  never  done 
to  any  one  but  Miss  Middleton.  Before  she  had 
finished,  Sir  Harry  knew  all  about  the  household  in 
Lowder  Street,  and  had  formed  a  tolerable  estimate 
of  every  member  of  the  family:  the  depressed 
father;  the  careworn  and  somewhat  stern. mother; 
.the  boys,  clever  and  handsome  and  flippant;  the 
girls  in  all  stages  of  awkwardness;  and  the  quiet, 
talented  Grace,  who  was  every  one's  right  hand, 
and  who  had  come  to  the  vicarage  to  dispossess 
Mattie. 


462  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 

.  "Come,  now,  I  call  that  hard;  I  do,  upon  my 
word!"  he  repeated  more  than  once  at  the  end  of 
Mattie's  little  narrative.  "Women  have  a  lot  put 
upon  them.  I  dare  say  if  I  had  had  sisters  I  should 
have  bullied  them  sometimes.  Men  are  awful 
tyrants,  aren't  they,  Miss  Mattie?" 

Mattie  took  this  literally.  > 

"I  do  not  think  you  would  be  a  tyrant,  Sir 
Harry,"  she  returned,  simply,  and  then  wondered 
why  he  suddenly  colored  up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

"Oh,  there  is  no  knowing,"  he  replied,  in  an  em- 
barrassed tone.  "I  have  never  had  any  one  to 
bully.  I  think  I  shall  try  my  hand  on  Dulce,  only 
she  is  such  a  little  spitfire.  Well,  I  must  be  going," 
he  went  on,  straightening  himself.  "By  the  bye,  I 
shall  not  see  you  again  until  Tuesday;  I  have  to 
•run  over  to  Oldfield  about  a  lot  of  business  I  have 
in  hand.  Do  you  know  Oldfield?" 

"Oh,  no;  but  Nan  and  Phillis  have  described  it 
so  often  that  1  seem  as  though  I  had  been  there." 

"It  is  a  niceish  place,  and  I  am  half  inclined  to 
settle  there  myself;  there  is  a  house  going  that 
would  just  suit  me." 

Mattie's  face  lengthened:  she  did  not  like  the 
idea  of  losing  Sir  Harry;  he  had  been  so  good- 
natured  and  kind  to  her. 

"One  would  never  see  you  if  you  lived  at  Old- 
field, "  she  said,  a  little  sorrowfully;  and  again  Sir 
Harry  looked  embarrassed. 

"Oh,  but  you  will  be  at  Leeds,  so  it  won't  make 
much  difference.  But  I  do  not  want  to  be  parted 
from  Aunt  Catherine  and  the  girls:  there  is  a  great 
deal  to  arrange.  Perhaps,  before  you  go,  I  shall 
be  able  to  tell  you  that  things  are  settled.  Any- 
how, good-bye  till  Tuesday. "  And  then  he  nodded 
to  her  in  a  friendly  way,  and  Mattie  returned  to  her 
fire-place  refreshed  and  comforted. 

Archie  and  Grace  came  in  presently,  bringing 
another  current  of  cold  air  with  them.  They  both 
looked  bright  and  happy,  as  though  they  had  en- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  463 

joyed  their  walk.    Grace's  pale  cheeks  had  the  love* 
liest  tinge  in  them. 

4  *  Have  we  left  you  too  long  alone,  Mattie  dear?" 
she  asked,  as  she  took  the  cup  of  tea  offered  her. 
"How  cozy  this  dear  old  room  looks!  and  what  a 
beautiful  fire!" 

"Sir  Harry  has  been  emptying  the  coal-scuttle!" 
laughed  Mattie.  "What  a  pity  you  missed  him, 
Grace!  he  has  been  so  amusing." 

Grace  smiled  incredulously: 

"What,  that  great  big  Sir  Harry  Challoner  whom 
you  introduced  this  morning!  My  dear  Mattie,  I 
am  sure  he  could  never  be  amusing.  I  was  not 
greatly  prepossessed  with  him." 

"Mattie's  geese  are   all   swans.     1    don't    think 
much  of  him  myself,"  broke  in  Archie,  in  a  satirical 
voice.     "I  like  quality  better  than  quantity.     He  is 
so  big,  1  am  sure  his  brains  must  suffer  by  compar 
ison.     Now,  there  is  Frere." 

"Oh,  yes,  we  met  Mr.  Frere!"  interrupted  Grace, 
eagerly;  "and  Archie  and  he  had  such  a  talk ;  it  was 
delightful  only  to  listen  to  it.  I  liked  his  ideas  on 
ecclesiastical  architecture,  Archie."  And  then  fol- 
lowed an  animated  discussion  between  the  sister 
and  brother  about  a  book  of  Ruskin's  that  they  had 
both  been  reading.  Mattie  tried  to  follow  them, 
but  she  had  not  read  Ruskin,  and  they  soon  left  her 
miles  behind;  indeed,  after  the  first  few  minutes 
they  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  existence;  but 
somehow  Mattie  did  not  feel  so  forlorn  as  us.ual. 

"Come,  now,  I  call  that  hard,"  a  sympathizing 
voice  seemed  to  say  in  her  ear.  Sir  Harry's  genial 
presence,  his  blunt,  kindly  speeches,  had  done 
Mattie  good ;  he  had  called  her  Cinderella,  and  made 
the  fire  blaze  for  her,  and  had  coaxed  her  in  quite  a 
brotherly  manner  to  tell  him  her  little  troubles,  and 
Mattie  felt  very  grateful  to  him. 

So  she  stared  into  the  fire  wistful  and  happy, 
while  the  others  talked  over  her  head,  and -quite 
started  when  she  beanj  her  own 


464  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"We  are  forgetting  Mattie;  all  this  must  be  so 
dull  for  her,"  Grace  was  saying,  as  she  touched  her 
shoulder  caressingly.  "Come  upstairs  with  me, 
dear:  we  can  have  a  chat  while  we  get  ready  for 
dinner.  You  must  not  let  your  friends  make  them- 
selves so  much  at  home,  you  extravagant  child,  for 
your  fire  is  far  too  large  for  comfort;"  but  Mattie 
turned  away  from  it  reluctantly  as  she  followed  her 
sister  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

"l    WILL    WRITE    NO   SUCH    LETTER." 

The  new  year  had  not  opened  very  auspiciously 
at  Longmead,  neither  had  the  Christmas  festivities 
been  great. 

Dick  on  his  first  return  had  put  on  a  great  ap- 
pearance of  cheerfulness,  and  had  carried  himself 
as  usual ;  but  Mr.  Mayne  had  been  glum,  decidedly 
glum,  and  Mrs.  Mayne  had  found  it  quite  difficult 
to  adjust  the  balance  of  her  sympathy  between 
Dick's  voluble  quicksilver  on  the  one  hand,  and  her 
husband's  dead  weight  of  ill  humor  on  the  other. 

The  truth  was,  Mr.  Mayne's  sharp  eyes  had  dis- 
cerned from  the  first  moment  of  his  son's  entrance 
into  the  house  that  there  was  no  change  in  his  pur- 
pose. 

To  an  outsider,  Dick's  behavior  to  his  father  was 
as  nice  as  possible.  He  still  kept  up  his  old  jokes, 
rallying  him  on  his  matutinal  activity,  and  saying1 
a  word  about  the  "early  worm" — "so  bad  for  the 
worm,  poor  beggar,"  observed  Dick.  And  he 
sauntered  after  him  into  the  poultry- yard,  and  had 
a  great  deal  to  say  about  some  Spanish  fowls  that 
had  been  lately  imported  into  Longmead,  and  that 
were  great  sources  of  pride  to  Mr.  Mayne. 

Dick  paid  a  great  deal  of  dutiful  attention  to  his 
father's  hobbies :  he  put  oti  his  thickest  boots  every 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  465 

day  after  luncheon,  that  his  father  might  enjoy  the 
long  walks  in  which  he  delighted.  Dick  used  to 
sally  forth  whistling  to  his  do^s  when  they  went 
down  Sandy  Lane;  he  was  careful  to  pause  where 
the  four  roads  met,  that  Mr.  Mayne  might  enjoy  his 
favorite  view.  In  ail  these  things  Dick's  behavior 
was  perfect.  Nevertheless,  on  their  return  from 
one  of  these  walks  they  each  had  a  secret  grievance 
to  pour  into  Mrs.  Mayne's  ear. 

Dick's  turn  would  come  first 

"Mother,"  he  would  say,  as  he  lounged  into  the 
room  where  she  sat  knitting  by  the  fire-light  and 
thinking  of  her  boy — for  just  now  she  was  heart  and 
soul  on  Dick's  side — and  full  of  yearning  for  the 
sweet  girl  whom  he  wanted  for  his  wife,  "I  don't 
know  how  long  this  sort  of  this  is  going  on,  but  I 
don't  think  I  can  put  up  with  it  much  longer." 

"Have  you  not  had  a  nice  walk  with  your 
father?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

44 Oh,  yes;  the  walk  was  well  enough.  We  had 
some  trouble  with  Vigo,  though,  for  he  startled  a 
pheasant  in  Lord  Fitzroy's  preserve,  and  then  he 
bolted  after  a  hare.  I  had  great  difficulty  in  get- 
ting- him  to  heel." 

4 'These  walks  do  your  father  so  much  good, 
Dick." 

"That  is  what  you  always  say;  but  I  do  not  think 
I  can  stand  many  more  of  them.  He  will  talk  of 
everything  but  the  one  subject,  and  that  he  avoids 
like  poison.  I  shall  have  to  bring  him  to  book 
directly,  and  then  there  will  be  no  end  of  a  row. 
It  is  not  the  row  I  mind,"  continued  Dick,  rather 
ruefully,  4*but  I  hate  putting  him  out  and  seeing 
him  cut  up  rough.  If  he  would  only  be  sensible  and 
give  me  my  way  in  this*  there  is  nothing  I  would 
not  do  to  please  him.  You  must  talk  to  him ;  you 
must  indeed,  mother."  And  then  Mrs.  Mayne, 
with  a  sinking  heart,  promised  that  she  would  do 
what  she  could. 

And  after  that  it  would  be  the  husband's  tura. 


466  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

*'I  tell  you  what,  Bessie;  1  am  not  satisfied  about 
that  boy,"  he  remarked  once,  as  he  came  in  to 
"warm  his  hands  before  going  upstairs  to  dress  for 
dinner.  "1  don't  know  from  whom  he  gets  his  ob- 
stinacy— not  from  either  of  us,  I  am  sure  of  that — 
but  his  cheerfulness  does  not  deceive  me.  He 
means  mischief;  1  can  see  that  plainly." 

%4Oh,  Richard!  And  Dick  has  been  so  nice  to  you 
ever  since  he  came  home.  Why,  he  has  not  once 
asked  to  have  any  of  his  friends  down  to  stay.  And 
before  this  he  was  never  content  unless  we  filled  the 
house  He  takes  walks  with  you,  and  is  as  domes- 
ticated and  quiet  as  possible;  so  different  from 
other  young  fellows,  who  are  always  racketing 
about. " 

4 "That  is  just  what  bothers  me,"  returned  her 
husband,  crossly.  "You  have  no  discernment,  Bes- 
sie, or  you  would  know  what  I  mean,  I  should  not 
care  a  straw  if  Dick  were  to  cram  the  house  with 
young  fellows':  that  sort  of  larking  is  just  natural 
at  his  age.  Why,  he  quite  pooh-poohed  the  idea  of 
a  dinner-party  the  other  night,  though  I  planned  it 
for  his  pleasure.  His  mind  is  set  on  other  things, 
and  that  is  why  I  say  he  is  up  to  mischief." 

Mrs.  Mayne  sighed  as  she  smoothed  down  her 
satin  dress  with  her  plump  white  hands,  but  she 
could  not  gainsay  the  truth  of  this  speech:  his 
father  was  right — Dick's  mind  was  set  on  other 
things. 

44 1  wish  you  would  let  him  talk  to  you,"  she  be- 
gan, timidly,  remembering  her  promise.  "Do,  my 
dear;  for  I  am  sure  Dick  is  very  much  in  earn- 
est." 

44 So  am  I  very  much  in  earnest,"  he  returned, 
wrath  fully;  and  his  small  eyes  grew  bright  and 
irritable.  4tNo,  it  is  no  use  your  looking  at  me  in 
that  way,  Bessie.  I  am  determined  not  to  allow 
that  boy  to  ruin  his  prospects  for  life.  He  will 
thank  me  one  day  for  being  firm:. and  so  will  you, 
though  you  do  turn  against  ybur  own  husband." 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  467 

This  was  too  much  for  Mrs.  Mayne's  affectionate 
nature  to  bear. 

44 Oh,  Richard,  how  can  you  talk  so?  and  I  have 
been  a  good  wife  to  you  all  these  years!"  And  here 
the  poor  woman  began  to  sob.  "You  might  make 
allowance  for  a  mother's  feelings;  he  is  my  boy  as 
well  as  yours,  and  I  would  cut  off  my  right  hand  to 
make  him  happy ;  and  I  do — I  do  think  you  are  very 
hard  upon  him  about  Nan." 

Mr.  Mayne  stared  at  her  in  speechless  amazement. 
Bessie,  his  long-suffering  Bessie — the  wife  of  his 
bosom,  over  whom  he  had  a  right  to  tyrannize — 
even  she  had  turned  against  him,  and  had  taken  his 
son's  part.  44Et  tu,  Brute!"  he  could  have  said,  in 
his  bitterness;  but  his  wrath  was  too  great. 

44 1  tell  you  what,"  he  said,  rising  from  the  seat 
that  was  no  longer  restful  to  him,  and  pointing  his 
finger  at  her,  44you  and  your  boy  together  will  be 
the  death  of  me." 

44Oh,  Richard,  how  can  you  be  so  wicked?" 

<4Oh,  I  am  wicked,  am  I?  That  is  a  nice  wifely 
speech." 

44 Yes,  you  are  when  you  say  such  things  of  me!" 
she  returned,  plucking  up  spirit  that  amazed  herself 
afterward.  "If  you  do  not  know  when  you  have  a 
good  wife  and  son,  I  am  sorry  for  you.  I  say 
again,  I  think  you  are  making  a  grievous  mistake, 
Richard.  Dick's  heart  is  set  on  the  girl ;  and  1  don't 
wonder  at  it,  a  dear,  pretty  creature  like  that. 
And  if  you  cross  him,  and  set  him  wrong,  you  will 
have  to" answer  to  both  of  us  for  the  consequences." 
And  then  she,  too,  rose,  trembling  in  every  limb, 
and  with  her  comely  face  very  much  flushed.  Even 
a  worm  will  turn,  and  Bessie  Mayne  for  once  ven- 
turned  to  speak  the  truth  to  her  husband. 

She  had  the  victory  that  night,  for  he  was  too 
much  dumbfounded  by  her  rebellion  to  indulge  in  his 
usual  recriminations:  he  had  never  imagined  be- 
fore that  Bessie  owned  a  will  of  her  own;  but  he 
felt  tiow,  with  a  pang  of  wounded  self-love,  th'at 


46?  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

the  younger  Richard  had  proved  a  formidable 
rival. 

His  wife's  heart  relented  when  she  saw  his  moody 
looks;  but  he  would  not  be  reconciled  to  her,  in 
spite  of  her  coaxing  speeches. 

44 Come,  Richard — come,  my  dear!  you  must  riot 
be  so  cross  with  me,"  she  said  to  him  later  on  that 
night.  "We  have  been  married  three-and- twenty 
years,  and  have  never  had  a  serious  quarrel;  and  I 
don't  like  your  black  looks  at  me." 

4 'Then  you  should  not  anger  me  by  taking  that 
boy's  part,"  was  his  only  answer;  and  he  could  not 
be  induced  to  say  anything  more  conciliatory.  And 
the  poor  woman  went  to  bed  weeping. 

Things  were  in  this  uncomfortable  state  when, 
one  morning,  Dick  thrust  his  head  into  the  study 
where  his  father  was  jotting  down  some  household 
accounts;  for  he  managed  all  such  minor  details 
himself,  much  to  his  wife's  relief. 

4tAre  you  particularly  busy,  father?  I  want  to 
talk  with  you. " 

Mr.  Mayne  looked  up  quickly,  and  his  bushy  eye- 
brows drew  together. 

"Well,  yes,  I  am,  Dick — most  particularly  busy 
just  now;"  for  there  was  a  look  on  his  son's  face 
that  made  him  feel  disinclined  for  conversation. 

"Oh,  very  well,  then;  I  can  leave  it  until  after 
luncheon,"  was  the  cheerful  response;  then  Mr. 
Mayne  knew  that  Dick  was  determined  to  take  the 
bull  by  the  horns. 

They  went  out  after  luncheon,  taking  the  dogs 
with  them,  and  turning  their  steps  in  the  direction 
of  Sandy  Lane.  For  the  first  mile,  Dick  said  very 
little;  he  had  his  eye  on  Vigo,  who  seemed  to  be  in- 
clined to  bolt.  But  when  they  had  reached  the 
second  mile  stone,  he  cleared  his  throat,  and  then 
Mr.  Mayne  knew  that  his  trouble  was  begin- 
ning. 

"Welf,  father,"  commenced  Dick,  "I  think  it  is 
about  time  we  had  a  little  serious  talk  together 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  469 

about  my  future  plans.  Of  course  I  want  to  know 
if  I  am  to  go  down  next  term." 

"I  don't  see  that  we  need  discuss  that.  You  will 
read  for  your  degree,  of  course." 

Mr.  Mayne  spoke  fast  and  nervously,  but  Dick 
was  quite  cool — at  least,  outwardly  so. 

"There  is  no  'of  course*  in  the  matter.  I  can 
only  read  for  my  degree  on  one  condition." 

"And  what  is  that,  may  I  ask?"  with  rising  choler 
in  his  voice. 

"Thai:  you  will  have  Nan  down  to  Long  mead, 
and  that  you  and  mother  sanction  our  engagement. 

"Never,  sir,  never!"  in  a  vehement  tone. 

"Please  don't  excite  yourself,  father.  I  think  it 
is  T  who  ought  to  be  excited;  but,  you  see,  I  am 
quite  cool — perfectly  so.  I  am  far  too  much  in 
earnest  to  be  otherwise.  When  a  man's  future 
prospects  are  at  stake,  and  his  own  father  seems 
determined  to  thwart  him,  it  is  time  to  summon  up 
all  one's  energies.  I  hope  you  are  not  serious  in 
what  you  say — that  you  absolutely  refuse  to  sanc- 
tion my  engagement  with  Nan?" 

"There  is  no  engagement.  If  there  were,  I  do 
absolutely  refuse;  nay,  more,  I  am  determined  ac- 
tively to  oppose  it." 

"I  am  sorry  to  find  you  have  not  changed  your 
mind;  for  it  makes  all  the  difference  to  me,  I  assure 
you.  Very  well;  then  I  must  go  in  for  a  city  life." 

"Do  you  threaten  me,  sir?" 

"No,  father,  I  would  not  be  so  undutiful;  but  it 
is  a  pity  your  throwing  all  that  money  away  on  my 
education  if  I  am  not  to  complete  it.  If  I  had  taken 
a  good  degree,  I  might  have  turned  out  something; 
but,  never  mind — it  can't  be  helped  now.  Then 
you  will  be  kind  enough  to  write  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction to  Stansfield  &  Stansfield?" 

"No,  sir;  I  will  write  no  such  letter!"  thundered 
Mr.  Mayne;  and  Dick  put  his  hands  in  his  pocket 
and  whistled.  He  felt  himself  losing  patience;  but, 
as  he  said  afterward,  his  father  was  in  such  an  awful 


470  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLSV 

rage  that  it  was  necessary  for  one  of  them  to  keep 
cool.  So,  as  soon  as  he  recovered,  he  said,  quite 
pleasantly: 

44  Well,  if  you  will  not,  you  will  not.  We  may 
take  a  horse  to  the  water,  but  we  can't  make  him 
drink.  And  the  time  has  not  come  yet  for  a  son  to 
order  his  own  father,  though  we  are  pretty  well  ad- 
vanced now." 

44 1  think  we  are,  Dick." 

44 1  confess  I  am  rather  disappointed  at  not  get- 
ting that  letter.  Mr.  Stansfield  would  have  attached 
some  importance  to  it;  but  I  dare  say  I  shall  get 
on  with  the  old  boy  without  it.  I  may  as  well  tell 
you  th£t  I  shall  accept  anything  he  likes  to  offer 
me — even  if  it  be  only  a  clerkship  at  eighty  pounds 
a  year.  After  all,  I  am  not  worse  off  than  you 
were  at  my  age.  You  began  at  the  bottom  of  the 
ladder,  so  I  need  not  grumble." 

44Do  you  mean  to  say,"  demanded  his  father,  in  a 
tone  of  grief,  44that  you  really  intend  to  throw  over 
me,  and  not  only  me,  but  all  your  advantages,  your 
prospects  in  life,  for  the  sake  of  this  girl?" 

44I  think  it  is  you  who  are  throwing  me  over," 
returned  his  son,  candidly.  *4Put  yourself  in  my 
place.  When  you  were  a  young  man,  father, 
would  you  have  given  up  my  mother  if  my  grand- 
father had  wished  you  to  do  so?" 

44The  cases  are  different — altogether  different," 
was  the  angry  response.  44I  never  would  have 
married  a  dressmaker," 

4 'There  are  dressmakers  and  dressmakers;  but 
at  least  my  fiancee  is  a  gentlewoman,"  returned  his 
son,  hotly 

Dick  meant  nothing  by  this  speech  more  than  his 
words  implied:  he  was  far  too  good-natured  for  an 
arriere-pensee  But  his  father  chose  to  consider 
himself  insulted. 

4*You  insolent  yonng  fellow!"  he  exclaimed,  fum- 
ing. "Do  you  mean  your  mother  was  not  as  good 
as  Miss  Nancy,  any  day?  I  never  did  believe  in 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  471 

those  Challoners—  never,  in  spite  of  the  mother's 
airs.  I  tell  you  what,  Dick,  you  are  treating  me 
shamefully;  after  all  the  money  I  have  wasted  on 
you,  to  turn  on  me  in  this  way  and  talk  about  the 
city.  I  wash  my  hands  of  you,  sir.  I  will  have 
nothing  to  do  with  introductions:  you  may  go  your 
way,  but  you  will  never  see  a  penny  of  my  money. " 
And  he  walked  on  with  a  very  black  look  indeed. 

44  All  right, "  returned  Dick.  But  he  was  not  quite 
so  cool  now.  44  Thank  you  for  all  you  have  done  for 
me,  and  for  letting  me  know  your  future  intentions. 
1  am  thinking  it  is  a  good  thing  Nan  has  learned 
her  business,  for,  as  we  shall  be  tolerably  poor,  it 
will  be  handy  for  her  to  make  her  own  gowns." 

44 Very  well,  Dick." 

44 1  shall  go  up  to  Mr.  Stansfield  to-morrow;  and 
the  day  after  I  suppose  I  had  better  write  to  the 
dean.  You  may  not  believe  me,  father" — and  here 
Dick's  lip  quivered  for  the  first  time — 44but  I  am 
awfully  sorry  to  cross  you  in  this  way;  but  my 
heart  is  so  set  on  Nan  that  I  could  not  possibly  bring 
myself  to  live  without  her. "  But  to  this  Mr. 
Mayne  made  no  reply,  and  they  walked  the  re- 
mainder of  the  way  in  silence. 

Mrs.  Mayne's  heart  grew  sick  with  apprehension 
when  she  saw  their  faces  at  dinner. 

Dick  looked  decidedly  cross.  To  do  him  justice, 
the  poor  fellow  was  thoroughly  miserable:  but  his 
aspect  was  cheerful  compared 'to  that  of  her  hus- 
band. 

Mr.  Mayne  would  not  speak,  neither  would  he 
eat.  And  even  the  footman,  who  took  away  the 
untasted  viands,  looked  at  his  master  with  fear  and 
trembling,  his  countenance  was  so  gloomy. 

Dick  did  not  seem  to  notice  his  father's  failure  of 
appetite;  but  Mrs.  Mayne  was  one  of  those  women 
who  are  given  to  fancy  that  if  a  man  refuse  his  din- 
ner there  is  something  serious  the  matter  with  him. 
And  as  the  meal  proceeded  she  cast  piteous  looks  at 
her  son,  but  Dick  totally  ignored  them. 


4*2  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

As  soon  as  the  servants  had  handed  round  the 
fruit  and  had  left  the  room,  Mr.  Mayne  rose  from 
the  table,  leaving  his  claret  untasted,  and  shut  him- 
self into  the  library,  first  banging  the  door  behind 
him,  a  sound  that  made  his  wife's  heart  palpitate. 

"Oh,  Dick,  what  has  happened  to  your  father?" 
she  asked,  turning  to  her  boy  for  comfort.  But 
Dick  was  unusually  sulky,  and  refused  to  answer. 

44  You  had  better  ask  him,  mother,  if  you  are  anx- 
ious to  know,"  he  replied,  in  a  voice  he  very  seldom 
used  to  her.  "As  for  me,  I  am  sick  of  the  whole 
thing,  and  feel  myself  so  badly  used,  that  I  would 
rather  not  open  my  lips  on  the  subject." 

Then  Mrs.  Mayne  sighed,  tor  she  knew  Dick  had 
one  of  his  obstinate  fits  on  him,  and  that  there  would 
be  no  further  word  spoken  by  him  that  night. 

Poor  woman!  She  knew  it  was  her  duty  to  go 
into  the  library  and  speak  a  word  of  comfort  to  her 
husband.  It  might  be  that  Dick  had  been  contu- 
macious and  had  angered  his  father;  and  it  might 
be  her  task  to  pour  in  the  balm  of  sympathy.  Even 
if  he  had  been  hard  on  her  boy,  she  must  not  forget 
that  he  was  her  husband. 

But  as  she  opened  the  door  she  forgot  her  doubts 
in  a  moment.  Mr.  Mayne's  face  was  so  pale,  des- 
pite its  blackness,  that  she  was  moved  to  instant 
pity. 

44Oh,  Richard,  what  is  it?"  she  said,  hurrying  to 
him.  *4My  dear,  you  must  not  take  it  to  heart  in 
this  way."  And  she  took  his  forehead  between  her 
hands  and  Vissed  it  with  the  old  tenderness  she  had 
once  felt  for  him,  when  they,  too,  had  lived  and 
worked  for  each  other,  and  there  was  no  Master 
Dick  to  plague  them  and  rule  over  his  mother's 
heart. 

44Bessie,  that  boy  will  be  the  death  of  me,"  he 
groaned  But,  notwithstanding  the  despondency  of 
these  words,  the  comfort  of  his  wife's  presence  was 
visibly  felt,  and  by  and  by  he  suffered  her  to  coax 
the  truth  from  him. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  478 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

MR.    MAYNE   ORDERS   A    BASIN   OF   GRUEL. 

On  the  following  morning  Mr.  Mayne  did  open 
his  lips  to  address  a  word  to  his  son: 

"I  shall  be  obliged  to  you,  Dick,  if  you  will  post- 
pone your  intended  visit  to  town,  for  this  day  at 
least;"  for  Dick  had  an  44A  B  C"  beside  him,  and 
was  picking  out  a  fast  train  while  he  ate  his  break- 
fast. 

44 All  right,"  replied  Dick:  "I  can  wait  another 
four-and- twenty  hours."  But,  though  he  yielded 
the  point  graciously  enough,  he  did  not  look  at  his 
father  or  say  anything  more  on  the  subject ;  and  as 
soon  as  his  appetite  was  satisfied,  he  took  up  the 
''Times'*  and  lounged  into  his  den.  Shortly  after- 
ward they  heard  him  whistling  to  his  dogs,  and 
knew  that  he  would  not  appear  until  luncheon. 

Mrs.  Mayne  wished  that  her  husband  would  fol- 
low his  example;  but  he  had  put  on  his  slippers, 
and  showed  no  inclination  to  leave  the  fireside.  He 
read  his  paper  and  dozed  a  good  deal,  and  snapped 
up  Bessie  if  she  spoke  to  him:  so,  on  the  whole, 
Mrs.  Mayne  had  rather  a  dull  morning.  When  the 
luncheon-bell  rang,  he  chose  to  put  on  invalid  airs, 
and  ordered  a  basin  of  gruel  to  be  brought  to  him 
in  the  library.  Mrs.  Mayne,  who  knew  he  was  not 
ill,  and  that  his  indisposition  was  purely  mental  and 
imaginary,  was  yet  wise  enough  to  fall  in  with  his 
whim. 

44Your  master  would  take  his  gruel  nicely  flav- 
ored, James,"  she  said  to  the  footman.  "Please 
ask  Mrs.  Simpkins  to  prepare  it  in  the  way  he 
likes  "  And  then  she  placed  his  favorite  little 
table  beside  him,  and  stirred  the  fire  into  a  more 
cheerful  blaze. 

"Your  father  does  not  feel  himself  well  enough 


474  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

to  come  in  to  luncheon,  Dick,"  she  said  to  her  son, 
probably  tor  the  benefit  of  the  servant,  who  was 
waiting  to  remove  the  covers;  and  Dick,  for  the 
same  reason,  testified  a  proper  amount  of  sympathy. 

**He  takes  too  long  walks  for  a  man  of  his  age," 
he  said,  applying  himself  vigorously  to  the  dismem- 
berment of  a  chicken.  '* Mother,  1  will  trouble  you 
for  some  of  that  game- pie."  And  then  he  told  her 
another  anecdote  about  Vigo. 

After  luncheon  Dick  again  disappeared,  and  Mrs. 
Mayne,  who  dreaded  an  afternoon's  tete-a-tete  with 
her  husband  in  his  present  mood,  went  up  to  her 
own  room,  for  some  feminine  business,  or  to  take  a 
nap.  Mr.  Mayne,  a  little  mollified  by  the  gruel, 
which  had  been  flavored  exactly  to  his  liking  with 
ksoupcon  of  rum,  was  just  composing  himself  for 
another  doze  when  he  was  roused  by  the  loud  peal- 
ing of  the  hall  bell,  and  the  next  moment  the  door 
was  flung  open  by  James,  and  Sir  Henry  Challoner 
was  announced. 

It  was  a  dark,  wintery  afternoon,  and  the  library 
was  somewhat  somber:  the  fire  had  died  down, 
jwing  to  Mrs.  Mayne's  drowsiness.  In  the  dim 
light  Sir  Harry's  big,  burly  figure  looked  almost 
gigantic.  Mr.  Mayne,  with  his  little  lean  shoulders 
and  sharp  face,  looked  beside  him  much  as  a  small 
greyhound  would  beside  a  mastiff. 

44 How  do  you  do?"  began  Sir  Harry,  in  his  loud 
voice.  *'I  must  apologize  for  my  intrusion;  but  I 
think  my  name  is  well  known  to  you,  and  needs  no 
introduction.  I  have  often  heard  of  Mr.  Mayne, 
I  can  assure  you." 

44 You  do  me  too  much  honor,"  returned  that 
gentleman,  stiffly;  and  he  glanced  at  the  card  in 
his  hand.  There  it  was,  "Sir  Henry  Challoner." 
*4But  what  the — "  And  here  his  favorite  expletive 
rose  to  his  lips. 

"We  can  scarcely  see  each  other's  faces,"  observed 
Sir  Harry,  cheerfully.  *4  Will  you  allow  me  to  take 
the  liberty,  though  I  have  not  known  you  for  seven 


JNOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  475 

years — and  hardly  for  seven  minutes!"  And  then 
he  seized  the  poker  and  broke  up  an  obstinate  piece 
of  coal. 

44  Actually,  in  my  own  house,  and  before  my  own 
eyes,"  as  Mr.  Mayne  told  his  wife  afterward. 

44 There,  now!  I  have  made  a  glorious  blaze. 
These  are  first-rate  coals.  Now  we  can  have  our 
talk  comfortably  together.  You  do  not  know  me 
personally,  but  I  dare  say  you  have  heard  of  my 
father — Sir  Francis  Challoner?  Poor  old  fellow!  I 
am  afraid  too  many  people  heard  of  him  in  his 
time/' 

44 Yes,  sir;  but  it  is  hardly  becoming  of  me  to  say 
to  his  son,  I  have  never  heard  much  good  of  him. 
If  I  remember  rightly,  he  did  poor  Challoner  a  bad 
turn  once." 

44 Hush,  my  good  friend!"  And  Sir  Harry's 
ruddy  face  looked  a  little  disturbed.  44I  thought  no 
one  but  myself  and  Aunt  Catherine  knew  that 
story.  It  is  rather  hard  on  a  man  to  have  this  sort 
of  thing  brought  up.  And  the  poor  old  governor  is 
dead  now:  so,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  observe, 
by-gones  had  better  be  by- gones  on  that  subject. " 

44Oh,  by  all  means,  Sir  Harry;  but  you  intro- 
duced the  matter  yourself." 

4 'Excuse  me,  Mr.  Mayne,"  rather  haughtily,  44I 
introduced  myself.  I  am  the  son  of  Sir  Francis. 
Well,  if  you  know  so  much,  you  will  understand  the 
sort  of  interest  I  take  in  my  cousins,  and  how  I 
consider  it  my  duty  to  make  up  to  them  for  what 
they  have  lost. " 

44 Very  proper,  I  am  sure." 

44  As  to  that,  duty  is  a  pleasure.  They  are  such 
awfully  jolly  girls,  and  so  uncommonly  plucky,  that 
I  am  as  proud  of  them  as  though  they  were  my  own 
sisters.  Nan  is  so  confoundedly  pretty,  too.  I 
don't  wonder  at  your  son's  taste.  He  must  be  a 
lucky  fellow  who  gets  Nan." 

44Sir!"  vociferated  Mr.  Mayne;  and  Sir  Harry 
immediately  changed  his  tactics, 


476  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"That  is  a  tidy  place  opposite  you — Gilsbank,  I 
mean.  I  have  been  over  there  settling  about  the 
purchase.  I  am  afraid  Cranford  is  rather  a  screw; 
he  wanted  to  drive  too  close  a  bargain.  But  I  said, 
4 No;  you  shall  have  your  money  down,  right  and 
tight,  but  not  a  farthing  over.'  And  I  insisted  on 
my  right  to  change  the  name  if  I  like.  I  have  half 
a  mind  to  call  it  'Challoner  Place.'" 

Mr.  Mayne  was  wide  awake  now;  his  astonish- 
ments knew  no  bounds. 

"You  are  going  to  buy  Gilsbank?'' 

"I  have  bought  it,"  was  the  cool  response;  "and 
I  am  now  in  treaty  for  Glen  Cottage.  My  aunt  has 
a  fancy  for  her  old  home;  and,  though  it  is  not 
.much  of  a  place,  it  is  big  enough  for  her  arid  the 
girls;  and  Ibbetson  has  done  a  good  deal  to  improve 
it.  You  look  surprised,  Mr.  Mayne;  but  I  suppose 
a  man  must  live  somewhere!" 

"Of  course  it  is  none  of  my  business,  but  I 
thought  Sir  Francis  was  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse. 
Mrs.  Challoner  was  my  informant,  and  she  always 
led  me  to  suppose  so. " 

"She  was  perfectly  right.  The  poor  old  man 
never  could  keep  money  in  his  pocket;  it  always 
seemed  to  slip  through  his  fingers.  But  that  is  not 
my  case.  I  have  been  a  lucky  fellow  all  my  life  I 
roughed  it  a  bit  in  the  colonies  at  first,  but  it  did 
me  no  harm.  And  then  we  made  a  splendid  hit  out 
in  Sydney —coined  money,  in  fact.  I  would  not  like 
to  tell  you  what  I  made  in  one  year:  it  seems  blow- 
ing one's  trumpet,  somehow.  But  I  soon  got  sick 
of  making  it;  and  here  I  am,  with  a  tidy  fortune — • 
plenty  for  myself,  and  enough  to  set  up  my  aunt 
and  the  girls  comfortably  without  feeling  the  loss. 
And  now,  Mr.  Mayne,  when  they  are  back  at  Glen 
Cottage,  I  want  to  know  what  you  will  do  about 
your  son." 

To  do  Mr.  Mayne  justice,  he  was  far  too  per- 
plexed to  answer  off-hand;  in  fact,  he  was  almost 
rendered  dumb  by  excessive  astonishment.  To 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  477 

borrow  his  own  forcible  expression,  used  to  his  wife 
afterward,  "he  hardly  knew  where  he  was,  things 
were  so  topsy-turvy." 

In  the  old  days,  before  Dick  had  produced  that 
wonderful  mustache  that  was  so  long  in  growing, 
Mr.  Mayne  had  been  very  partial  to  his  neighbors 
at  Glen  Cottage.  It  is  always  pleasant  to  a  man  to 
patronize  and  befriend  a  pretty  woman,  and  Mrs. 
Challoner  was  an  exceedingly  pretty  woman.  It 
was  quite  an  occupation  to  a  busy  man  like  the 
master  ot  Longmead  to  superintend  their  garden 
and  give  his  advice  on  all  subjects  that  belong  to  a 
man's  province. 

But  before  the  last  year,  since  Dick  had  so  greatly 
developed  in  mental  culture,  his  father  had  been 
growing  very  weary  even  of  the  name  of  Challoner; 
it  had  become  a  habit  with  him  to  decry  them  on 
every  possible  occasion.  "What  is  in  a  name?"  he 
would  say,  when  some  person  would  lament  the 
dead-and-gone  glories  of  Challoner  Place.  "There 
is  not  a  soul  belonging  to  them,  except  that  dis- 
reputable Sir  Francis;  and  he  is  as  good  as  a  beg- 
gar." 

But  since  Glen  Cottage  had  given  way  to  the 
Friary,  and  the  dressmaking  scheme  had  been  car- 
ried out,  his  opposition  had  become  perfectly  frantic: 
he  could  have  sworn  at  Dick  for  his  senselessness, 
his  want  of  pride,  his  lamentable  deficiency  in 
ambition.  "Never,  as  long  as  my  name  is  Richard 
Mayne,  will  I  give  in  to  that  boy,"  he  had  vowed 
inwardly. 

And  now  there  had  suddenly  started  up,  like  a 
piece  of  gilded  clap-trap,  this  amazing  man  of 
inches,  calling  himself  their  cousin,  Sir  Henry  Chal- 
loner; a  man  who  was  absolutely  tired  of  making 
money— who  called  Gilsbank,  a  far  finer  house  than 
Longmead,  a  tidy  little  place,  and  who  could  throw 
in  Glen  Cottage,  that  bijou  residence,  as  a  sort  of 
dower-house  for  widowed  Challoners;  a  man  who 
would  soon  be  talked  about  in  Hadleigh, 


4?8  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

because  he  was  rich — most  of  the  Hadleigh  families 
were  rich — but  because  he  was  restoring  an  ancient 
name  to  something  of  his  old  respectability. 

Mr.  Mayne  was  essentially  a  shrewd,  far-sighted 
man.  Like  other  self-made  men,  he  attached  great 
importance  to  good  blood.  In  a  moment  he  realized 
that  Nan  Challoner  of  the  Friary  was  a  very  differ- 
ent person  from  Nan  Challoner  of  Glen  Cottage,  the 
cousin  of  Sir  Henry  Challoner.  Under  the  latter 
circumstances  she  would  be  received  on  equal  terms 
at  Fitzroy  Lodge,  and  at  the  other  houses  of  the 
aristocracy.  In  marrying  her,  Dick  would  be  at 
once  on  an  intimate  footing  with  those  very  people 
who  only  just  tolerated  his  father. 

"Well,"  observed  Sir  Harry,  after  a  lengthy 
pause,  "what  do  you  say  about  the  matter,  eh? 
Though  I  have  accumulated  a  pretty  sum  of  money 
I  do  not  pretend  to  be  a  millionaire;  and  of  course, 
as  I  may  settle  down  some  day  and  have  a  family  of 
my  own,  I  must  not  treat  my  cousins  as  though 
they  were  my  sisters.  1  think  of  allowing  my  aunt 
a  sufficient  income  during  her  life-time  to-keep  up 
Glen  Cottage,  and  I  do  not  mind  paying  the  girls 
three  thousand  pounds  down  on  their  wedding-day, 
just  for  pin-money;  but  more  than  that  can  riot  be 
expected  of  me." 

"Of  course  not,"  returned  Mr.  Mayne,  and  then 
he  hesitated.  Three  thousand  pounds  was  not  much 
of  a  fortune.  Why,  the  girl  he  wanted  for  Dick  had 
fifteen  thousand,  at  least;  but,  then,  Dick  would 
not  look  at  her;  and  even  three  thousand  was  bet- 
ter than  nothing.  "I  had  hoped  better  things  for 
my  son,"  he  went  on,  stiffly.  "I  always  meant 
Dick  to  marry  money." 

"Oh,  true,  money  is  very  good  in  its  way;  but 
then,  you  see,  young  fellows  are  not  always  to  be 
coerced.  1  believe  there  is  a  very  strong  attach- 
ment between  your  son  and  my  cousin  Nan." 

"It  has  caused  me  a  great  deal  of  vexation," 
replied  Mr.  Mayne,  very  testily — all  the  more  that 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  47d 

his  resolution  was  wavering.  "I  do  not  wish  to 
hurt  your  feelings,  Sir  Henry,  but  this  confounded 
dressmaking  of  theirs — "  But  here  Sir  Harry 
stopped  him  by  a  most  extraordinary  facial  contrac- 
tion, which  most  certainly  resembed  a  wink. 

"Hush!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  very  loud  whisper. 
4 'It  does  not  matter  to  me,  of  course;  but  if  I  were 
you,  I  would  not  mention  this  little  fact  to  any  one 
else.  Girls  are  girls,  and  they  will  have  their  fling. 
A  good  steady  husband,  that  is  what  they  want, 
the  best  of  them,  to  sober  them  when  the  right  time 
comes.  I  mean  to  put  a  stop  to  this  nonsense;  but, 
after  all,  a  little  bit  of  larking  like  that,  with  a  lot 
of  high-spirited,  generous  creatures,  what  does  it 
matter  in  the  long  run?  You  just  settle  things  with 
me  off-hand,  and  I  will  come  to  terms  with  the 
young  ladies.  I  am  the  head  of  the  family,  as  they 
know."  And  Sir  Harry  threw  out  his  big  chest 
with  a  sudden  movement  of  importance  and  pride. 
"I  am  the  head  of  the  family:  they  will  be  pleased 
to  remember  that,"  he  repeated,  pompously. 

It  was  just  at  this  moment,  when  victory  lay 
within  his  grasp,  that  Dick  sauntered  lazily  into  the 
room. 

Dick  was  in  an  execrable  humor:  he  was  tired 
and  worried,  and  his  boots  were  muddy.  And  what 
was  the  use  of  being  still  contumacious,  unless  his 
obstinacy  were  to  be  a  spectacle  to  men  and  gods — 
unless  he  were  to  flaunt  his  ill  humor  in  the  face  of 
his  tyrant,  and  make  his  father's  soul  wretched 
within  him?  Such  is  youthful  reasoning,  that  hates 
to  veil  its  feelings  unobserved. 

Dick  had  not  perceived  Sir  Harry's  card,  so  he 
stared  at  the  intruder  a  little  coolly.  Sir  Harry 
returned  his  look  with  a  glance  of  mingled  surprise 
and  amusement. 

"Is  this  the  young  gentleman  in  question?"  he 
asked  in  a  tone  that  roused  Dick's  ire.  To  tell  the 
truth,  he  was  a  little  disappointed  by  Nan's  choice. 
It  was  not  so  much  Dick's  want  of  "good  looks,  but 


480  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

in  Sir  Harry's  eyes  he  appeared  somewhat  insig- 
nificant; and  then  a  scowl  is  not  always  becoming 
to  a  face.  Dick's  bright,  genial  expression  was 
wanting;  he  looked  a  little  too  like  his  father  at 
this  moment  for  Sir  Harry's  taste. 

44 Do  you  mean  me?"  observed  Dick  in  a  magnifi- 
cent tone.  "Is  it  I  who  am  the  young  gentleman 
in  question? — Father,  will  you  have  the  goodness  to 
introduce  me  to  this  gentleman  with  whom  you 
have  been  talking  me  over?"  And  Dick  twirled 
his  mustache  angrily. 

Mr.  Mayne  looked  at  his  son's  moody  face?  and 
his  feelings  underwent  a  sudden  revulsion;  but 
before  he  could  speak  Sir  Harry  stepped  in  nimbly 
before  him: 

4 'Well,  now,  I  like  spirit:  no  one  cares  to  be 
talked  over  behind  one's  back.  Supposing  we  shake 
hands,  you  and  I,  as  we  are  to  be  so  nearly  related. 
I  am  Nan's  guardian,  her  next  of  kin — Sir  Harry 
Challoner,  at  your  service;  and  Nan  sends  her  love, 
and  you  are  a  lucky  fellow,  thaf  is  what  you  are!" 
exclaimed  Sir  Harry,  genially,  as  he  struck  Dick  a 
sounding  blow  on  his  shoulder.  But  Dick  did  not 
wince;  and,  though  the  diamond  ring  cut  into  his 
hand  as  they  exchanged  that  grasp,  no  expression 
of  pain  crossed  his  face,  which  became  all  at  once 
quite  radiant. 

Sir  Harry  hailed  the  metamorphosis  with  delight. 
Here  was  the  real  Dick  emerging  like  a  young  sun- 
god  from  the  clouds. 

4 'Come,  that  is  first  rate;  I  like  the  look  of  you 
better  now,"  he  said,  with  an  appreciative  nod. 

"Father,  what  does  this  mean?"  faltered  Dick. 

"It  means,"  growled  Mr.  Mayne,  for  he  could 
not  get  quite  amiable  all  at  once,  though  his  heart 
was  lightening  in  his  bosom — "it  means  that  I  am 
an  old  fool,  Dick,  and  that  you  are  a  young  one." 

"No,  father — not  really — does  it?"  And  Dick 
beamed  still  more. 

"And  it  means  that  you  are  not  to  plague  me 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  4tl 


any  mort  about  the  city.  But,  there  !  though 
have  behaved  so  badly  to  me,  Dick,  I  forgive  you. 
Sir  Henry  and  I  have  been  talking  over  things,  and 
if  you  will  work  hard  for  your  degree  your  mother 
shall  ask  the  girl  down  here,  and  we  will  see  about 
it,  and  that  is  all  I  can  say  at  present.  And  so  we 
may  as  well  shake  hands  upon  it  too." 

But  Dick  did  more  than  that  ;  he  threw  his  arm 
over  his  father's  shoulder  with  a  movement  that 
was  almost  caressing. 

4  'Thank  you,  pater;  you  are  a  brick  and  no  mis- 
take!" was  all  the  undemonstrative  Briton's  tongue 
could  say.  But  Mr.  Mayne,  as  he  looked  in  his 
boy's  face  and  felt  that  pressure  on  his  shoulder, 
thought  them  sufficiently  eloquent. 

44  There!  get  along  with  you,  and  have  it  out  with 
your  mother,"  he  growled.  But,  in  spite  of  his 
surly  tone,  Mr.  Mayne  felt  an  amount  of  relief  that 
astonished  himself:  to  see  Dick's  face  happy  again, 
to  have  no  cloud  between  them,  to  know  that  no 
domestic  discord  would  harass  his  soul  and  render 
gruel  necessary  to  his  well-being,  was  restoring 
him  to  his  old  self  again.  Sir  Harry  longed  to 
throw  back  his  head  and  indulge  in  a  good  laugh  as 
he  witnessed  this  little  scene  of  reconciliation. 

Mrs.  Mayne,  who  was  sitting  somewhat  sadly  by 
her  own  fireside,  thinking  over  that  day's  discom- 
fort, was  quite  taken  aback  by  hearing  Dick  coming: 
upstairs  in  his  old  way,  three  steps  at  a  time,  and 
then  bursting  into  the  room  after  a  hasty  knock  a 
the  door. 

44  Mother,"  he  cried,  breathlessly,  44Sir  Harry 
Challoner  is  in  the  library  —  and  pater  wants  you  to 
come  down  and  give  them  some  tea  —  and  Sir  Henry 
is  going  to  stop  to  dinner  —  and  the  woodcock  is  to 
be  cooked  —  and  you  are  to  get  the  best  room  ready. 
But  first  of  all—  like  the  dear,  darling  mother  you 
are  —  you  are  to  sit  down  and  write  a  letter  to  Nan.  '  ' 
But  the  letter  was  not  written  then  ;  for  how  could 
Bessie  keep  her  husband  and  his  guest  waiting  for 

31  Girls. 


*!U  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

their  tea  after  such  an  urgent  message?  And  had 
the  not  first  of  all  to  listen  to  Dick's  incoherent 
story,  which  she  heard  better  from  Sir  Harry  after- 
ward, who  took  great  pains  to  explain  it  to  the 
poor,  bewildered  woman? 

Mr.  Mayne  thought  he  had  never  seen  Bessie  look 
so  handsome  since  the  days  he  courted  her,  as  she 
sat  smiling  at  the  head  of  the  table  in  her  velvet 
gown.  And  Sir  Harry,  too,  was  quite  charmed  with 
the  soft,  comely  creature. 

Later  on,  while  the  two  elder  gentlemen  were 
chatting  confidentially  over  their  cigars  and  whisky 
and  water,  she  did  manage  to  write  a  few  lines  to 
Nan.  But  it  was  not  much  of  a  letter;  for  how 
was  she  to  construct  a  decent  sentence  with  that 
torment,  Dick,  hanging  over  the  back  of  her  chair 
and  interrupting  her  ever  moment?  But  Nan  was 
not  ill  pleased  by  the  missive  when  she  received  it. 

44 My  own  dear  girl,"  it  said — 4lmy  dearest  girl — 
for  no  daughter  could  ever  be  so  dear  to  me  as  you 
will  be,  Nan,  for  my  boy's  sake,  and  because  he 
loves  you  so."  ("You  are  right  there,  mother!" 
struck  in  Dick,  in  a  tone  of  ecstasy.)  "Everything 
has  come  right,  through  Sir  Henry's  intercession 
and  my  Richard's  goodness."  (Humph!"  coughed 
Dick.  44Well,  it  is  not  for  the  like  of  me  to  contra- 
dict you. ' ') 

41  You  are  to  come  to  us — at  once — at  once" — un- 
derlined— 44for  Dick  will  be  going  back  to  Oxford, 
so  there  is  no  time  to  lose ;  and  you  have  not  got 
any  good  of  your  engagement  yet."  ("Only  just 
at  that  last  moment,"  muttered  her  son  at  this.) 

"My  precious  boy  looks  so  happy  that  I  could  cry 
with  joy  to  see  him."  ("Oh,  shut  up,  mother! 
Nan  knows  all  that. ")  "And  his  dear  father  looks 
as  pleased  as  possible,  and  sends  his  love."  ("He 
did  indeed,  Dick,"  as  an  incredulous  sound  broke 
from  his  lips),  "and  he  says  by-gones  are  by- 
f one*.  And  you  are  on  no  account  to  feel  yourself 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  4U 

awkward  as  regards  him,  for  of  course  Dick's 
fiancee"  (4<Are  you  sure  that  is  spelled  right, 
Dick?")  "will  bring  her  own  welcome.  Is  not  that 
a  sweet  speech  for  my  Richard  to  say?  So  you  will 
come,  my  dear,  will  yon  not?  And  I  remain,  just 
what  I  always  was,  my  Nan's  loving  friend, 

*4  BESSIE  MAYNE.  " 

And  then  the  letter  was  carefully  consigned  to 
Dick's  pocket,  and  in  due  course  of  time  was  deliv- 
ered into  Nan's  fair  hands. 


CHAPTER   XLV. 

AN    UNINVITED    GUEST. 

During  the  next  few  days  Grace  and  Phillis  made 
great  strides  toward  intimacy;  and,  as  though  some 
magnetic  influence  attracted  each  to  each,  they 
were  to  be  found  constantly  together.  Neither  of 
them  was  a  girl  to  indulge  in  gushing  sentimen- 
tality; but  Grace,  whose  refined,  intellectual  nature 
had  hitherto  met  with  no  response  except  from 
her  brother,  perceived  at  once  Phillis's  innate 
superiority  and  clear,  generous  temperament.  For 
the  first  time  she  felt  feminine  friendship  a  possi- 
bility, and  hailed  it  as  a  new-found  joy.  Nan  testi- 
fied her  pleasure  on  more  than  one  occasion; 
jealousy  never  found  a  resting-place  in  a  corner  of 
her  heart. 

441  am  so  glad,  Phillis,"  she  observed,  once,  "thai 
you  and  Grace  Drummond  like  each  other  so  much. 
You  have  never  found  any  girl  equal  •  to  you  yet ; 
and  1  was  always  too  stupid  to  give  you  what  you 
wanted. ' ' 

44 Oh,  Nannie,  as  though  I  would  change  you  for 
a  dozen  Grace  Drummonds!"  returned  Phillis, 
staunch  as  ever  to  her  domestic  creed,  that  there 
never  was  and  never  could  be  such  another  as  Nan. 

41  Oh,  of  course  we  shall  always  be  the  same  to  each 


464  N01   LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

other,  you  and  I,"  returned  Nan,  seriously;  "we 
are  such  old  comrades,  Phil ;  but,  then,  I  have 
Dick,  and  it  is  only  fair  you  should  have  some  one 
too;"  but  she  did  not  understand  why  Phillis  sud- 
denly sighed  and  turned  away. 

An  amusing  little  incident  happened  to  Phillis 
after  this,  which  she  greatly  enjoyed.  Colonel 
Middleton's  avoidance  of  them  had  long  been  a  sore 
point  with  her,  as  it  was  with  Dulce. 

44 1  feel  almost  like  that  wicked  Haman,"  she 
said,  once,  in  a  serio-comic  voice,  "and  as  if  he 
were  my  Mordecai.  I  shall  never  think  we  have 
achieved  perfect  success  until  I  have  forced  him  to 
shake  hands  with  me."  But  Nan,  who  cared  very 
little  about  such  things,  only  laughed. 
.  On  Sunday  morning  Colonel  Middleton  marched 
up  the  aisle  rather  more  pompously  than  usual,  and 
there  followed  him  a  tall,  very  solemn-faced  young 
man,  with  serious  eyes  that  reminded  them  of 
Elizabeth. 

44 Son  Hammond,"  whispered  Phillis,  who  was  not 
always  as  devout  as  she  ought  to  be;  and  Dulce 
tried  hard  to  compose  her  dimples. 

Possibly  the  young  officer  was  not  as  solemn  as 
his  looks,  for  he  certainly  paid  more  attention  to 
the  opposite  pews  than  he  did  to  his  prayer-book ; 
and  as  he  walked  home  with  his  sister,  Colonel  Mid- 
dleton being  just  then  out  of  ear- shot,  he  questioned 
her  rather  closely  on  the  subject: 

4 'Who  were  those  girls,  Elizabeth?  I  mean  the 
three  who  were  just  opposite  us  with  their  mother. 
Are  they  visitors  or  residents?"  Then  Elizabeth 
told  him  very  briefly  their  name  and  occupation. 

44 Good  gracious!"  he  returned,  in  a  thunder  struck 
tone;  and  then  all  at  once  he  burst  out  laughing, 
as  though  at  a  good  joke. 

44 1  call  that  a  piece  of  splendid  pluck.  Do  you 
know  I  could  see  in  a  moment  there  was  something 
out  of  the  common  about  them?  They  are  all  very 
pretty — at  least  good-looking — and  I  liked  their 


NOT  LIKE  OTh£R  GIRLS.  435 

quiet  style  of  dress.  You  must  introduce  me  to- 
morrow." 

4 'My  dear  Hammond,  I  can  do  nothing  of  the 
kind,"  returned  Elizabeth,  glancing  round  in  an 
alarmed  way.  "  Father  has  refused  to  have  them 
at  Brooklyn ;  and  it  would  annoy  him  terribly  if  you 
were  to  take  any  notice  of  them."  But  to  this 
Hammond  turned  a  deaf  ear,  and,  though  he  forbore 
to  question  her  any  further  on  that  occasion,  he 
had  fully  made  up  his  mind  that  the  introduction 
should  take  place  as  soon  as  possible. 

As  it  fell  out,  accident  favored  him  the  very  next 
day;  for,  as  he  was  calling  with  his  sister  at  the 
White  House,  who  should  be  announced  the  next 
minute  but  the  Misses  Challoner — Phillisand  Dulce, 
who  had  been  bidden  to  afternoon  tea! 

Mrs.  Ckeyne  kissed  and  welcomed  them  both. 
Then  Captain  Middleton  was  introduced,  and  they 
were  soon  chatting  merrily  together,  to  Elizabeth's 
secret  amusement. 

Captain  Middleton  made  himself  very  agreeable 
to  the  two  girls,  as  Dulce  observed  afterward.  She 
had  never  before  been  so  deceived  in  a  man's  ap- 
pearance— for  he  was  not  solemn  at  all ;  and,  though 
the  serious  brown  eyes  certainly  inspected  them 
rather  critically  from  time  to  time,  he  proved  him- 
self a  bright,  amusing  companion,  and  fully  bore 
out  his  father's  and  sister's  encomiums. 

The  Middletons  were  easily  induced  to  prolong 
their  visit.  Elizabeth  felt  herself  a  traitor  to  her 
father,  but  she  could  not  refuse  Hammond's  implor- 
ing glance.  And  so  they  stayed,  and  all  took  their 
leave  together. 

Mr.  Cheyne  walked  down  to  the  gate  with  them. 
He  had  an  errand 'in  the  town,  and  he  and  Eliza- 
beth walked  behind  the  young  people,  talking  them 
over  in  a  low  voice. 

Now,  it  so  happened  that  Colonel  Middleton  watt 
trudging  down  the  Braidwood  Road;  and  as  he 
neared  the  White  House  he  looked  up,  and  thare 


436  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

was  his  son  walking  contentedly  with  a  Challoner 
girl  on  either  side  of  him,  and  the  three  were 
laughing  merrily. 

It  was  Dulce  who  saw  him  first. 

4 'There  comes   your  father!"  she   said;  and  she 
began  to  blush  as  she  had  done  on  the  day  when  he 
had  left  her  at  the   gate  of   Brooklyn,   talking  to. 
Elizabeth. 

Hammond  proved  himself  quite  worthy  of  the 
occasion. 

4 'Well  met,  father/'  he  called  out,  cheerily,  "We 
seem  all  going  one  way.  I  suppose  no  one  needs 
any  introduction?  Of  course  you  know  my  father, 
Miss  Challoner?' '' 

Then  the  colonel  threw  down  his  arms.  He  had 
fought  very  bravely  on  his  son's  behalf;  but,  after 
all  his  labors,  his  bristling  defences  and  skillful 
retreats,  Hammond  had  of  his  own  free  will  deliv- 
ered himself  into  the  hands  of  the  Philistines. 
What  was  the  use  of  guarding  an  empty  citadel? 
His  treasure  was  already  in  the  enemy's  grasp. 

All  this  was  written  on  the  colonel's  lugubrious 
face  as  he  bowed  stiffly  and  walked  in  sorrowful 
silence  beside  them,  shaking  his  white  head  at  inter- 
vals; but  no  one  but  Dulce  took  any  notice  of  his 
somber  mood. 

Dulce  was  very  timid  by  nature.  She  was  the 
least  outspoken  of  the  three,  and  always  kept  in  the 
background,  like  a  modest  little  flower  that  loved 
the  shade ;  but  she  was  very  soft-hearted,  and  had 
great  regard  for  people's  feelings.  And  the  old 
man's  downcast  looks  pained  her;  for  how  was  she 
to  know  that  he  was  secretly  pleased  at  this  meet- 
ing? 

'*!  hope — I  wish — you  did  not  mind  knowing  us 
so  much.  But  it  has  not  been  our  fault  this  after- 
noon," sighed  Dulce,  stammering  and  blushing  over 
her  words.  "You  will  believe  that,  will  you  not, 
Colonel  Middle  ton?" 

If  a  cannon-shot  had  been  fired  into  the  <3ld  war- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  4H 

rior's  ear,  he  could  hardly  have  started  more  than 
he  did  at  these  childish  words.  He  looked  round. 
There  was  the  little  girl,  looking  up  at  him  with  the 
innocent  eyes  he  remembered  so  well,  and  her 
mouth  puckered  a  little  as  though  she  wanted  to 
cry. 

This  was  more  than  any  man  could  bear,  even  if 
he  had  a  harder  heart  than  Colonel  Middleton. 

"My  dear,'*  he  said,  taking  the  little  hand,  "I 
have  always  wanted  to  know  you;  Elizabeth  will 
tell  you  that.  I  lost  my  heart  to  your  sisters  the 
first  day  I  saw  them.  I  am  sure  we  shall  be  good 
friends  in  time,  if  you  will  forgive  an  old  man's 
pride."  And  then  he  patted  her  hand  as  though 
she  had  been  an  infant. 

When^Mr.  Drummond  sat  down  to  dinner  that 
evening  he  astonished  Mattie  very  much  by  say- 
ing: 

44 You  can  ask  the  Middletons,  after  all,  for  your 
tea-party,  if  you  like,  Mattie.  What  wonderful  sight 
do  you  think  I  saw  just  now?  Why,  the  colonel 
himself  coming  out  from  the  Friary,  and  all  the 
three  girls  were  round  him,  chattering  as  though 
they  had  known  him  all  their  life:  and  I  am  pretty 
sure  that,  in  spite  of  the  dark,  I  saw  'son  Hammond* 
behind  him."  And  Mattie,  glad  of  the  permission, 
gave  the  invitation  the  next  day. 

Mattie  grew  a  little  alarmed  as  the  evening  ap- 
proached. It  was  her  first  party,  and  she  knew 
Archie  would  be  critical;  but  Grace  proved  herself 
a  useful  ally. 

In  spite  of  her  efforts  to  keep  in  the  background 
and  leave  Mattie  in  her  position  as  mistress  of  her 
brother's  house,  she  felt  herself  becoming  insensibly 
its  presiding  spirit. 

Archie  was  tolerably  good-natured  to  Mattie,  but 
the  habits  of  a  life-time  were  too  strong  for  him, 
and  he  still  snubbed  and  repressed  her  at  intervals. 
Mattie  felt  herself  of  no  importance  now  that  Grace 
had  come ;  her  duties  were  usurped  before  har 


4SS  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Archie  made  a  fresh  demand  on  her  forbearance 
every  day. 

"Why  can  not  you  keep  to  the  housekeeping,  and 
let  Grace  do  the  schools  and  visitings?"  he  said, 
once.  "It  must  come  to  her  by  and  by,  when  you 
are  gone;  and  I  want  her  to  begin  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble. It  will  not  do  to  let  her  think  she  has  come 
too  soon,"  implying  that  good  taste  should  lead 
Mattie  to  resign  of  her  own  account. 

Poor  Mattie !  she  had  many  a  good  cry  in  secret 
before  that  Tuesday.  She  could  hardly  help  feel- 
ing pained  to  see  how  all  in  all  those  two  were  to 
each  other,  and  the  glad  eagerness  Grace  threw 
into  her  work,  knowing  the  reward  of  commenda- 
tion she  would  reap.  "It  must  be  so  strange  never 
to  be  snubbed  or  scolded — to  do  everything  right," 
Mattie  thought. 

Grace  felt  very  sorry  for  her,  and  petted  her  a 
good  deal.  The  dark  little  face  had  always  a  pained 
wistfulness  on  it  now  that  touched  her.  She  spoke 
kindly  of  Mattie  to  her  brother  on  all  possible 
occasions. 

"I  think  Mattie  is  so  generous  in  giving  up  to 
me  as  she  does, ' '  she  observed,  as  Archie  joined 
her  in  the  drawing-room  in  expectation  of  the 

fuests.     Mattie  had  not  yet  made  her  appearance, 
he  had  been  lighting  the  wax  candles  and  trim- 
ming a  refractory  lamp  that  refused  to  burn,  and 
had  just   run    past    her    brother   with    blackened 
fingers  and  hot,  tired  face. 

"Oh,  yes,  she  is  good  enough,"  he  returned,  in- 
differently, as  he  straightened  a  crooked  candle; 
"but  I  wish  she  would  not  always  be  late.  She 
has  not  begun  to  dress,  and  it  is  the  time  we  ap- 
pointed for  the  Challoners  to  come.  Of  all  things  I 
hate  unpunctuality  and  fuss,  and  Mattie  is  always 
so  fussy." 

Grace's  conscience  pricked  her.  "I  am  afraid  I 
loft  her  too  much  to  do,"  she  said,  penitently. 
"Pltitli*  a*fced  me  to  go  for  a  walk  with  them;  fctrt 


NOT  LIKE  OTMER  6IRLS.  480 

1  ought  not  to  have  left  her.  I  will  go  and  help 
her  now. ' 

But  Archie  objected: 

"No,  no;  let  her  be.  You  must  not  leave  me 
alone  to  receive  them.  How  nice  you  look  in  that 
cream-colored  dress,  Grace !  I  thought  it  would  suit 
you."  But,  though  his  eyes  rested  on  her  as  he 
spoke,  he  seemed  rather  absent.  And  when  the 
door  bell  rang  a  moment  afterward,  a  sudden  flush 
came  to  his  face. 

It  was  very  odd  to  feel  that  he  was  receiving  Nan 
as  his  guest.  He  had  dreaded  the  ordeal  greatly, 
but  after  the  first  moment  it  was  not  so  bad.  Grace, 
who  had  her  suspicions,  watched  them  closely,  had 
them  verified  without  doubt  during  the  moment 
that  followed  the  Challoners'  entrance ;  but  no  other 
eyes  but  hers  would  have  read  anything  amiss  in 
the  young  vicar's  gravely  composed  face. 

Nan,  who  was  looking  beautiful,  met  him  with 
her  usual  unconsciousness;  though  neither  of  them 
knew  it,  it  was  this  very  unconsciousness  that  was 
fast  healing  the  wound.  One  can  not  mourn  long 
after  a  lost  dream,  and  there  had  never  been  any 
reality  in  it.  Not  one  of  Nan's  thoughts  had  ever 
belonged  to  him  for  a  moment ;  his  existence,  hi* 
individuality  had  never  grazed  the  outer  edge  of  her 
susceptibilities.  Dick  had  incased  her  from  child- 
hood m  armor  of  proof  against  all  manhood.  Archie 
felt  this  even  as  he  touched  her  hand,  and  his  lips 
gave  her  welcome. 

"I  am  sorry  your  mother  could  not  come,"  he 
said,  politely.  And  then  he  turned  to  Phillis,  who 
was  regarding  him  with  an  odd,  dubious  look. 

Archie  felt  the  look,  and  his  spirit  rose  in  instant 
opposition. 

"Do  you  know  the  Middletons  are  to  be  here, 
after  all?"  he  said,  moving  a  little  into  the  back- 
ground, for  this  girl  had  keen  vision,  and,  as  of  old, 
her  sympathy  moved  him  strangely. 

"Oh,  then  we  shall  be   quite  a  party,"  she   re- 

32  Other  Girls 


m  HOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

turned,  brightly.  "It  seems  ages  since  we  have 
been  at  one,  and  1  feel  disposed  to  enjoy  myself. 
The  very  sight  of  wax  candles  is  exhilarating.  I 
am  half  afraid  to  touch  coffee,  for  fear  it  will  get 
iato  my  head.  And  how  sweet  Grace  looks  in  that 
dress!" 

44 Your  chef-d'oeuvre  "  he  replied,  rather  wickedly. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  recognize  my  handiwork,"  returned 
Phillis,  nonchalantly.  4tl  am  quite  as  proud  of  it 
as  an  artist  would  be  of  a  picture.  Here  comes 
Mattie;  poor  little  thing!  she  seems  tired,  but  she 
looks  nice,  too.  "*• 

Archie  moved  away  after  this,  for  the  Middletons 
were  announced;  but  he  thought  as  he  left  her  that 
lie  had  never  seen  her  look  so  handsome.  Nan's 
beauty  had  so  blinded  him  that  he  had  hardly  been 
aware  what  a  charming  face  Phillis  really  had: 
when  she  was  pleased  or  excited  she  lighted  up 
quite  radiantly. 

4 'Oh,  dear!*'  exclaimed  Mattie,  fussily  coming  up 
at  that  moment.  l*I  don't  know  what  has  become 
ef  your  cousin ;  but  Captain  Middleton  says  all  the 
trains  have  been  snowed  up." 

* '  If  the  train  he  is  on  has  been  snowed  up,  of  course 
we  must  not  expect  to  see  him  this  evening,"  was 
Phillis's  laughing  reply.  **  Never  mind;  I  dare  say 
we  shall  all  survive  it ;  though  Harry  is  such  a  good 
fellow,  and  I  am  immensely  fond  of  him." 

*4Oh,  but  the  tea  and  coffee  will  be  spoiled.  I 
must  go  and  pour  it  out  now.  Look,  Grace  is  mak- 
ing signs  to  me." 

"Shall  I  come  and  help  you?"  was  the  ready  re- 
sponse. 44What  a  pretty  little  tea-table,  Mattie, 
and  how  charmingly  snug  it  looks  in  the  bay- 
window!  The  gentlemen  will  wait  on  us,  of  course. 
I  like  this  way  better  than  servants  handing  round 
lukewarm  cups  from  the  kitchen;  it  is  not  so  grand, 
but  it  is  cozier.  Was  it  your  arrangement,  Mattie?' ' 

"Oh,  yes,"  returned  Mattie,  in  a  disconsolate 
tone,  as  she  took  her  place.  44But,  Phillis,  are  you 


N0T  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  491 

really  not  anxious  about  your  cousin?  It  is  so 
dreadful  to  think  of  him  snowed  up  all  night,  with 
nothing  to  eat  and  drink." 

Phillis  laughed  outright  at  this. 

44 My  imagination  will  not  conjure  up  to  such 
horrors.  I  believe  Harry  is  at  this  moment  sitting 
in  the  hotel  discussing  agood  dinner  be  fore  a  blazing 
fire."  And,  as  Mattie  looked  injured  at  this,  she 
continued,  still  more  merrily,  "My  dear,  are  you 
such  an  ignoramus  as  to  believe  that  any  amount 
of  wax  candles  and  charming  women  will  induce  an 
Englishman  to  forego  his  dinner?  He  will  come  by 
and  by,  and  if  he  gets  cold  coffee,  he  will  have  his 
deserts."  And  then  Mattie's  anxious  face  grew 
more  cheerful. 

The  tea-table  became  the  nucleus  of  the  whole 
room  before  long.  Even  Mr.  Frere,  a  tall,  scholarly 
looking  man,  with  spectacles  and  a  very  bald  head, 
though  he  was  still  young,  seemed  drawn  magnet- 
ically into  the  circle  that  closed  round  Phillis.  The 
girl  was  so  natural  and  sprightly,  there  was  such 
buoyancy  and  brightness  in  her-  manner;  and  yet 
no  man  could  ever  have  taken  a  liberty  with  her, 
or  mistaken  the  source  of  that  pure  rippling  fun. 
The  light,  jesting  tone,  the  unembarrassed  manner, 
were  as  free  from  consciousness  as  though  there 
were  gray-headed  dons  round  her.  And  yet,  alas 
ior  Phillis!  there  was  not  a  word  uttered  in  a  cer- 
tain voice  that  did  not  reach  her  ear  somehow;  not 
a  movement  that  was  lost  upon  her,  even  when  she 
chatted  and  laughed  with  those  who  stood  round  her. 

Colonel  Middleton  was  staunch  to  his  little  favor- 
ite, and  sat  on  the  couch  between  her  and  Grace, 
while  Nan  and  Miss  Middleton  talked  apart.  Nan 
watched  the  tea-table  smilingly.  She  did  so  love  to 
see  Phillis  happy.  It  never  occurred  to  her  to  feel 
herself  a  little  neglected,  or  to  wonder  why  the 
grave  young  master  of  the  house  so  seldom  ad- 
dressed her:  thoughts  of  this  sort  never  entered 
Nan's  head. 


492  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

But  she  grew  a  little  silent  by  and  by,  and  began 
to  answer  Elizabeth  somewhat  absently.  She  did 
not  know  what  it  meant,  but  a  certain  strong  long- 
ing took  possession  of  her — a  sort  of  craving  to  see 
Dick's  face  and  hear  his  voice.  It  was  foolish,  of 
course;  and  then  she  roused  herself  with  diffi- 
culty. 

44 How  late  JJarry  is!  I  wonder  if  the  train  be 
really  snowed  up!  Oh,  that  must  be  he!"  as  the 
doorbell  sounded.  "Mattie  will  be  glad;  she  was 
so  afraid  the  coffee  would  be  cold."  For  Mattie 
had  poured  this  grievance  into  every  one's  ears. 

Of  course  it  was  Sir  Harry.  Yes,  as  the  door 
opened,  there  were  the  broad,  genial  face  and  the 
massive  shoulders  that  could  only  belong  to  one 
person.  And  who  was  this  young  man  following 
him —  a  somewhat  insignificant  young  man  com- 
pared to  this  son  of  Anak— a  young  man  with  sandy 
hair,  with  a  trivial  mustache,  with  a  free,  careless 
expression  of  good  nature  that  seemed  somehow 
stamped  on  his  features? 

Nan  did  not  speak  or  move  in  her  corner;  but  she 
locked  her  hands  together  tightly,  and  a  most  won- 
derful blush  came  to  her  face;  for  the  young  man's 
eyes  had  moved  quickly  round  the  room,  with  an 
eager  expression  in  them,  and  had  just  rested  upon 
her. 

Nan  sat  immovable  while  Sir  Harry  gave  the  ne- 
cessary introduction  in  his  loud,  jovial  voice : 

"I  am  sorry  to  be  late — I  am,  'pon  my  honor, 
Miss  Mattie!  but  it  could  not  be  helped:  could  it, 
Mayne?  Mr.  Drummond,  I  have  taken  the  liberty 
to  bring  a  friend  with  me;  he  is  my  guest  at  pres- 
ent— Mr.  Richard  Mayne.  He  has  come  down  to 
Hadleigh  to  see  some  old  acquaintances  of  his." 

"Dick!  Oh,  Dick!"  the  words  would  come  out 
now.  Miss  Middleton  had  judiciously  vacated  the 
corner  of  the  couch,  and  Dick  had  boldly  placed 
himself  there  instead,  after  first  touching  Nan's 
trembling  hand.  "What  does  it  mean?  Why  have 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  493 

you  startled  me  so?"  she  whispered,  for  they  were 
in  a  snug  corner,  and  no  one  was  near  them. 

"I  suppose  a  man  has  a  right  to  come  and  look 
after  his  own  belongings?"  returned  Dick,  in  the 
coolest  possible  manner.  But  his  eyes  were  more 
eloquent  than  this  words,  as  usual,  "How  lovely 
you  are  looking,  Nan!  I  do  believe  you  grow 
prettier  every  day.  And  are  you  glad  to  see  me? 
half  or  a  quarter  as  glad  as  I  am  to  see  you?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  you,"  she  returned,  softly. 
44 1  was  wondering  what  you  were  doing,  and  pic- 
turing you  at  Longmead ;  and  then  the  door  opened, 
and  there  you  were,  half  hidden  by  Harry;  and  I 
thought  I  was  dreaming." 

"Well,  that  was  transmission  of  thought,  don't 
you  see?  animal  magnetism,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  You  thought  of  me  because  I  was  thinking 
of  you ;  but  you  did  not  know  that  only  the  door 
divided  us.  Oh,  Nan,  isn't  it  awfully  jolly  to  be 
together  again?*' 

"Yes;  but  I  don't  understand  it  yet,"  she  replied. 
44  Have  you  come  without  your  father's  permis- 
sion, Dick?  Are  you  sure  he  will  not  be  very 
angry?" 

"Oh,  no;  the  pater  is  all  right.  Sir  Harry — what 
a  brick  that  fellow  is! — has  talked  him  over  and  he 
has  given  his  consent  to  our  engagement.  Look 
here,  Nan!  what  you  have  got  to  do  is  to  pack  up 
your  things,  and  I  am  to  take  you  down  to-morrow. 
This  is  a  note  from  mother,  and  you  will  see  what 
sha  says."  And  Nan's  gloved  hand  closed  eagerly 
upon  the  precious  missive. 

The  letter  could  not  be  read  just  then.  Nan  sent 
Dick  away  after  that,  though  he  would  willingly 
have  remained  in  his  corner  during  the  remainder 
of  the  evening.  He  went  off  grumbling,  to  be  civil 
to  his  hostess,  and  Nan  remained  behind  trying  to 
calm  herself.  It  was  "all  right,"  Dick  had  told  her. 
She  was  to  go  down  with  him  the  next  day  to  dear 
Longroe-ad.  Were  their  troubles  really  over? 


494  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Well,  she  would  hear  all  about  it  to-morrow.     She 
must  wait  patiently  until  then. 

Nan  did  not  long  remain  alone.  .Archie,  who  had 
watched  this  little  scene  from  the  bay-window,  sud- 
denly took  his  opportunity  and  crossed  the  room. 

Nan  looked  up  at  him  with  a  happy  smile. 

44 You  have  hud  a  surprise  this  evening,  have  you 
not,  Miss  Challoner?  Sir  Harry  has  just  been  tell- 
ing me  all  about  it.  You  will  permit  me  now  to 
offer  my  congratulations?" 

"Most  certainly,  Mr.  Drummond." 

41I  am  so  glad,  for  both  your  sakes,  that  things 
should  be  so  comfortably  settled/'  he  went  on, 
placing  himself  beside  her  —  a  movement  that 
mightily  displeased  Dick,  who  had  conceived  a  dis- 
like to  the  handsome  parson  from  the  first.  44A 
parent's  opposition  is  always  a  serious  drawback  in 
such  cases;  but  Sir  Harry  tells  me  that  Mr.  Mayne 
has  given  his  full  consent." 

44 1  believe  so,"  returned  Nan,  blushing  a  little; 
44 but  I  really  hardly  know  any  particulars.  It  is 
such  a  surprise  to  me  altogether ;  but  his  mother 
has  written  to  me,  and  I  am  expected  down 
there." 

4 'You  have  my  warmest  wishes  for  your  happi- 
ness," continued  Archie,  gravely;  and  then  Nan 
thanked  him. 

But  here  Dick  interrupted  them.  He  was  still 
new  to  his  role,  and  hardly  had  the  assurance  that 
belongs  to  the  engaged  man,  who  feels  himself  safely 
steering  toward  the  desired  haven  of  matrimony.  It 
appeared  to  him  that  on  this  evening  he  ought  not 
to  lose  sight  of  Nan  for  a  moment.  To  see  Mr. 
Drummond  taking  his  place  was  too  much  for  him, 
and  he  put  down  his  untasted  coffee. 

44I  am  afraid  it  is  rather  cold,"  observed  Mattie, 
anxiously ;  but  she  spoke  to  deaf  ears. 

Dick  was  already"  half-way  to  the  corner.  Nan 
received  him  a  little  shyly;  but  Mr.  Drummond  at 
once  took  the  hint. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  495 

"Oh,  Dick,  people  will  notice!  you  must  take 
care,"  remonstrated  Nan. 

She  was  preparing  one  of  those  gentle  little  lec- 
tures to  which  she  sometimes  treated  him,  and  to 
which  he  was  wont  to  listen  with  the  utmost  sub- 
mission; but,  to  her  intense  surprise,  he  turned 
restive. 

4 'That  was  all  very  well  when  things  were  not 
settled  between  us,"  observed  Dick,  decidedly. 
"Now  we  are  engaged,  of  course  I  shall  assert  my 
rights  publicly.  What  does  it  matter  if  people 
notice?  They  will  only  think  what  a  lucky  fellow  I 
am,  and  how  they  would  like  to  be  in  my  place. 
Did  you  think  I  was  going  to  remain  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room  while  that  parson  was  talking  to 
you?"  And  then  Nan  all  at  once  discovered  that, 
in  spite  of  Dick's  boyish  looks  and  easy  temper,  she 
found  her  master — that,  like  other  men,  he  was 
capable  of  jealousy,  and  insisted  on  an  entire  and 
undivided  allegiance. 

Nan  was  weak  enough  to  like  him  all  the  better 
for  this  little  touch  of  tyranny;  and,  after  all, 
though  she  felt  it  a  little  hard  on  Mr.  Drummond, 
who  was  so  harmless  and  good-natured,  the  sense  of 
this  monopoly  was  very  sweet  to  her. 


CHAPTER  XLVL 

A    NEW    INVASION    OF    THE    GOTHS. 

It  was  the  most  successful  evening — every  one 
said  so,  but,  somehow,  Mattie  had  not  enjoyed  it. 
She  supposed  she  was  tired;  that  'lamp  had  worried 
her;  but,  though  every  one  had  been  very  pleasant, 
and  had  said  nice  things  to  her — even  that  formid- 
able Mr.  Frere — Mattie  felt  something  had  been  lack- 
ing. She  had  been  very  pleased  to  see  Sir  Harry, 
and  he  had  come  up  to  her  at  once  and  spoken  to 
her ih  his  usual  genial  manner;  bat,  aftei*  the 


496  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

few  minutes,  during  which  he  had  drunk  his  coffee 
standing  beside  her,  she  did  not  remember  that  he 
had  again  addressed  her.  After  that,  he  had  made 
his  way  to  Grace,  and  did  not  stir  for  a  long  time. 

Mattie  had  Colonel  Middleton  on  her  hands  then  ; 
but  her  eyes  would  stray  to  that  part  of  the  room. 
How  pretty  Grace  looked  in  that  soft,  creamy 
dress,  with  the  dainty  lace  ruffles  that  Archie  had 
sent  her!  Her  face  generally  wanted  color  and  an- 
imation, but  to-night  she  was  quite  rosy  by  compar- 
ison. She  seemed  to  find  Sir  Harry  amusing,  for 
she  looked  up  at  him  very  brightly.  And  then 
Archie  joined  them ;  he  would  not  be  de  trap  there, 
he  knew.  And  the  three  talked  as  though  they 
never  meant  to  leave  off. 

When  Sir  Harry  came  to  take  his  leave,  he  said, 
a  little  abruptly: 

i4I  like  that  sister  of  yours,  Miss  Mattie.  She  is 
sensible  for  a  girl,  and  yet  she  knows  how  to  laugh. 
Clever  girls  are  generally  a  little  priggish,  do  you 
know?  But  one  need  not  be  afraid  of  Miss  Grace. " 
And  Mattie  knew  that  from  Sir  Harry  this  was  high 
praise. 

"Every  one  likes  Grace,"  she  faltered. 

44 1  am  not  surprised  at  that,"  was  the  ready  re- 
sponse ;  and  then  he  shook  hands  and  thanked  her 
for  the  pleasant  evening.  He  did  not  even  look  at 
her  as  she  spoke,  Mattie  remembered,  afterward; 
he  was  watching  Nan,  who  was  smiling  on  Dick's 
arm. 

The  young  vicar  stood  bareheaded  on  the  snowy 
doorstep,  as  his  guests  merrily  trooped  out  together. 
Dick  and  Nan  came  first;  Nan  had  a  scarlet  hood 
over  her  bright  hair,  and  Dick  was  grumbling  over 
the  lightness  of  her  cloak,  and  was  wrapping  his 
gray  overcoat  round  her. 

"Nonsense,  Nan!  I  insist  upon  it!  and  you  know 
nothing  gives  me  cold!*'  Dick  was  saying,  in  his 
authoritative  way,  and  then,  of  Bourse,  Nan  yielded. 

"  4Oh,   wert    thon    in    the    c^uld    blast,*  "  sung 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  497 

Phillis,  mockingly,  who  was  following  them  under 
Captain  Middleton's  escort.  "Don't  you  think 
engaged  people  are  sometimes  very  masterful?"  She 
spoke,  of  course,  to  her  companion:  but  he  had 
turned  to  warn  his  father  and  Dulce  of  an  awkward 
step,  and  Archie  intercepted  the  sentence : 

4 'Most  men  are  masterful,  Miss  Challoner.  You 
will  find  that  out  some  day  for  yourself."  He 
meant  nothing  by  this  little  speech,  and  he  was 
rather  taken  aback  by  the  sudden  hot  blush  that 
came  to  the  girl's  face,  and  the  almost  angry  light 
in  her  eyes,  as  she  turned  away  from  him  and  ran 
down  the  slippery  steps,  to  Captain  Middleton's 
alarm. 

44 'On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea,'  "  they  heard  her 
humming  gayly;  and  Hammond  caught  the  refrain, 
and  finished  it  in  a  fine  manly  bass,  while  Archie 
stood  still  under  the  wintry  sky.  Why  had  she 
looked  like  that  at  him?  What  was  there  in  his 
lightly  uttered  speech  to  offend  her? 

Grace  was  standing  alone  when  he  re-entered  the 
drawing-room.  Most  of  the  wax  candles  were  ex- 
tinguished, but  the  soft  glow  of  the  fire-light  irradi- 
ated the  furthest  corner  of  the  room. 

4 'What  a  glorious  fire!"  he  said,  warming  his 
chilly  hands  at  it,  and  then  throwing  himself  into 
the  easy-chair  that  Grace  silently  placed  for  him. 
44  And  where  is  Mattie?  Really,  she  did  very  well 
to-night." 

44  You  must  tell  her  to-morrow,  she  will  be  so 
pleased.  She  seems  tired,  and  her  head  aches,  so  I 
advised  her  to  go  to  bed. "  And,  though  Archie  did 
not  say  openly  that  he  approved  of  this  sensible 
advice,  he  implied  it  by  the  way  he  drew  a  low  chair 
forward  for  Grace — so  close  beside  him  that  she 
could  rest  "her  arm  upon  the  cushioned  elbow  of  his. 
They  remained  comfortably  silent  for  a  long  time; 
it  was  Grace  who  spoke  first. 

4 'Archie,"  sJie  said,  rather  nervously,  but  her 
eyes  had  a  settled  purpose  in  ttem,  "shall  you  be, 


498  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

angry  if  I  disobey  you,  dear,  and  speak  again  on  a 
certain  subject?" 

"What  subject?"  he  asked,  rather  surprised  by 
her  manner.  He  had  not  a  notion  to  what  she  was 
referring;  he  did  not  know  how  during  that  long 
silence  their  thoughts  had  been  touching  the  same 
point,  and  that  all  this  time  she  was  seeking  courage 
to  speak  to  him. 

"I  know  your  secret,  Archie;  I  discovered  it  to- 
night." 

"My  secret!"  he  returned,  in  utter  amazement. 
"I  have  no  secret,  Gracie. "  And  then,  as  he  caught 
her  meaning,  a  cloud  came  to  his  brow.  "But  this 
is  nonsense!"  he  continued,  harshly — "pure  non- 
sense, put  it  out  of  your  head." 

"I  saw  it  to-night,"  she  went  on,  in  a  very  low 
voice,  undisturbed  by  his  evident  displeasure.  "She 
is  good  and  sweet,  and  quite  lovely,  Archie,  and 
that  young  man  is  not  half  worthy  of  her,  but  she 
has  no  thought  but  for  him." 

"Do  you  think  I  do  not  know  that?"  he  returned, 
in  an  exasperated  tone.  "Grace,  I  will  not  have 
you  talk  in  this  way.  1  am  cured — quite  cured;  it 
was  nothing  but  a  passing  folly." 

44  A  folly  that  made  you  very  unhappy,  my  poor 
Archie;  but — hush!  you  must  not  interrupt  me — I 
am  not  going  to  talk  about  her." 

"Oh,  that  is  well,"  he  returned,  in  a  relieved  tone. 

"1  was  sorry — just  a  little  sorry — at  first,  because 
I  knew  how  much  it  had  cost  you;  but  this  evening 
I  could  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  be  angry  with 
you — yes,  even  with  you.  4Oh,  the  blindness  of 
these  men!'  I  thought;  4why  will  they  trample  on 
their  own  happiness?'  " 

44 Are  you  speaking  of  me?"  he  asked,  in  a  bewil- 
dered tone. 

"Of  whom  should  I  be  speaking?"  she  answered, 
and  her  voice  had  a  peculiar  meaning  in  it.  "You 
are  my  dear  brother— my  dearest  brother,  but  you 
aye  oo  wore  sensible  limn  other  metf. ;" 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  499 

44 1  suppose  not/'  he  returned,  staring  at  her;  "I 
suppose  not." 

4  *  Many  men  have  done  what  you  are  doing,"  she 
went  on  quietly.  <4Many  have  wanted  what  be- 
longed to  another,  and  have  turned  their  hacks 
upon  the  blessing  that  might  have  been  theirs.  It 
is  the  game  of  cross-purposes.  Do  you  remember 
that  picture,  Archie — the  lovely  print  you  longed  to 
buy — the  two  girls  and  the  two  men?  There  was 
the  pretty,  demure  maiden  in  front,  and  at  the 
back  a  girl  with  a  far  sweeter  face,  to  my  mind, 
watching  the  gloomy  looking  fellow  who  is  regarding 
his  divinity  from  afar.  There  was  a  face  here 
to-night  that  brought  that  second  girl  strongly  to 
my  mind;  and  I  caught  an  expression  on  it  once — " 
Here  Archie  violently  started. 

44Hush!  hush!  what  are  you  implying?  Grace, 
you  are  romancing;  you  do  not  mean  this?" 

44  As  there  is  a  heaven  above  us,  I  do  mean  it, 
Archie." 

*4Then,  for  God's  sake,  not  another  word!"  And 
then  he  rose  from  his  seat,  and  stood  on  the  rug. 

44  You  are  not  really  angry  with  me?"  she  urged, 
frightened  at  his  vehemence. 

44 No;  I  am  not  angry.  I  never  am  angry  with 
you,  Grace,  as  you  know;  but  all  the  same  there  are 
some  things  that  never  should  be  said/'  And, 
when  he  had  thus  gravely  rebuked  her  speech,  he 
kissed  her  forehead,  and,  muttering  some  excuse 
about  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  left  the  room. 

Grace  crept  away  to  her  chamber  a  little  discom- 
fited by  this  rebuff,  gently  as  it  had  been  given ; 
but  if  she  had  only  guessed  the  commotion  those 
few  hinted  words  had  raised  in  her  brother's  mind! 

He  had  understood  her;  in  one  moment  he  had 
understood  her.  As  though  by  a  lightning  flash  of 
intelligence,  the  truth  had  dawned  upon  him ;  and 
if;  an  electric  shock  had  passed  through  his  frame 
and  set  all  his  nerves  tingling  he  could  not  have 
more  deeply  shaken. 


500  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Was  that  what  she  thought,  too,  when  she  had 
turned  away  from  him  with  that  quiet  look  of  scorn 
on  her  face?  Did  she  know  of  any  possible  blessing 
that  might  have  been  his,  only  that  he  had  turned 
his  back  upon  it,  crying  out  childishly  for  a  shad- 
owy happiness?  Did  she  mutter  to  herself  also, 
"Oh,  the  blindness  of  these  men!*' 

There  is  an  old  saying,  greatly  credited  by  the 
generality  of  people,  that  hearts  are  often  caught  at 
the  rebound — that  in  their  painful  tossings  from 
uneven  heights  and  depths,  and  that  sad  swinging 
over  uncertain  abysses,  some  are  suddenly  attracted 
and  held  fast;  and  there  is  sufficient  proof  to  war. 
rant  the  truth  of  this  adage. 

The  measurements  of  pain  are  unequal;  different 
natures  hold  different  capacities.  A  trouble  that 
seems  very  real  at  the  time,  and  full  of  stings,  may 
be  found  later  on  to  be  largely  alloyed  by  wounded 
self-love  and  frustrated  vanity.  Sound  it  with  the 
plumb-line  of  experience,  of  time,  of  wakening 
hopefulness,  and  it  may  sink  fathoms,  and  by  and  by 
end  in  nothingness  or  perhaps  more  truly  in  just  a 
sense  of  salt  bitterness  between  the  teeth,  as  when  one 
plunges  in  a  waning  tide. 

Not  that  Archie  realized  all  this  as  he  paced  his 
room  that  night;  no,  he  was  very  strangely  moved 
and  excited.  Something,  he  knew  not  what,  had 
again  stirred  the  monotony  of  his  life.  He  had 
been  sick  and  sad  for  a  long  time;  for  men  are  like 
children,  and  fret  sometimes  after  the  unattainable, 
if  their  hearts  be  set  upon  it.  And  yet,  though  he 
forbore  to  question  himself  too  closely  that  nigkt, 
how  much  of  his  pain  had  been  due  to  wounded 
vanity  and  crossed  willfulness! 

It  was  long  before  he  could  sleep,  for  the  sudden 
broadening  of  the  perspective  of  his  future  kept 
him  wide  awake  and  restless.  It  was  as  though  h* 
had  been  straining  his  eyes  to  look  down  a  longf 
gray  vista,  where  he  saw  things  dimly,  and  that 
tjj«e  was  a  low  light  on  the 


NOT  LIKE  OTMIR  GIRLS.  601 

brilliant,  not  even  clear;  but  it  spoke  of  approaching 
daybreak.  By  and  by  the  path  would  be  more 
plainly  visible. 

There  was  great  excitement  at  the  Friary  on  the 
next  day.  They  had  found  it  hard  to  get  rid  of 
Dick  the  previous  night ;  but  Sir  Harry,  who  read 
his  aunt's  tired  face  rightly,  had  carried  him  off 
almost  by  sheer  force,  after  a  lengthy  leave  taking 
with  Nan  in  the  passage. 

It  was  only  Mrs.  Challoner  who  was  tired.  Poor 
woman !  she  was  fairly  worn  out  by  the  violence  of 
her  conflicting  feeling — by  sympathy  with  Nan  in 
her  happiness,  with  pleasure  in  Dick's  demonstrat- 
ive joy,  and  sorrow  at  the  thought  of  losing  her 
child.  The  girl  herself  was  far  too  much  excited 
for  sleep. 

She  and  Phillis  did  all  the  packing  for  the  next 
day,  and  it  was  not  until  Dulce  sleepily  warned 
them  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour  that  they  consented 
to  separate ;  and  then  Nan  sat  by  the  parlor  fire  a 
long  time  alone,  enjoying  the  luxury  of  undisturbed 
meditation. 

But  the  next  morning,  just  as  they  had  gone  into 
the  work-room,  not  to  settle  to  any  business — that 
was  impossible  under  the  present  exciting  circum- 
stances— but  just  to  fold  up  and  dispatch  a  gown 
that  had  been  finished  for  Mrs.  Squails,  while  Dulce 
put  the  finishing  touches  to  Mrs.  Cheyne's  tweed 
dress,  Nan  announced  in  a  glad  voice  that  their 
cousin  and  Dick  were  at  the  gate,  "and  I  am  so 
thankful  we  packed  last  night/*  she  continued,  "for 
Dick  will  not  let  me  have  a  free  moment  until  we 
start/' 

"You  should  keep  him  in  better  order,"  observed 
Phillis,  tersely;  "if  you  give  him  his  own  so  much, 
you  will  not  have  a  will  of  your  own  when  you  are 
married;  will  she,  mother?"  Mrs.  Challoner  smiled 
a  little  feebly  in  answer  to  this;  she  could  not  re- 
member the  time  when  she  had  had  a  will  of  her 
own 


502  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Nan  went  out  shyly  to  meet  them ;  but  she  could 
not  understand  her  reception  at  all.  Dick's  grasp 
of  her  hand  was  sufficiently  eloquent,  but  he  said 
nothing;  and  Nan  thought  he  was  trying  not  to 
laugh,  for  there  was  a  gleam  of  fun  in  his  eyes, 
though  he  endeavored  to  look  solemn.  Sir  Harry's 
face,  too,  wore  an  expression  of  portentous  gravity. 

"Are  you  all  in  the  work-room,  Nan?"  he  asked, 
in  a  tone  as  though  they  were  assembled  at  a 
funeral. 

"Yes;  mother  and  all,"  answered  Nan,  brightly. 
"What  is  the  matter  with  you  both?  You  look 
dreadfully  solemn." 

"Because  we  have  a  little  business  before  us, "re- 
turned Sir  Harry,  wrinkling  his  brows  and  frowning 
at  Dick.  "Come,  Mayne,  if  you  are  ready." 

"Wait  a  minute,  Nan.  I  will  speak  to  you  after- 
ward," observed  that  young  gentleman,  divesting 
himself  of  his  gray  overcoat ;  and  Nan,  very  much 
puzzled,  preceded  them  into  the  room. 

"How  do  you  do,  Aunt  Catherine?  Good -morn- 
ing, girls,"  nodded  Sir  Harry,  and  then  he  looked 
at  Dick.  And  what  were  they  both  doing?  Were 
they  mad?  They  must  have  taken  leave  of  their 
senses;  for  Dick  had  raised  his  foot  gently — very 
gently — and  Mrs.  Squails'  red  merino  gown  lay  in 
the  passage.  At  the  same  moment  Sir  Harry's 
huge  hand  had  closed  over  the  tweed,  and,  by  a  dex- 
terous thrust,  had  flung  it  as  far  as  the  kitchen. 
And  now  Dick  was  bundling  out  the  sewing- 
machine. 

"Dick,  oh  Dick,"  in  an  alarmed  voice  from  Dulce. 
And  Phillis  flew  to  the  great  carved  wardrobe,  that 
Sir  Harry  was  ransacking;  while  Nan  vainly  strove 
to  rescue  the  fashion-books  that  Dick  was  now 
flinging  into  the  fender. 

"Oh,  you  great  Goth!  You  stupid,  ridiculous 
Harry!"  observed  Phillis,  scornfully,  while  the 
rolls  of  silk  and  satin  and  yards  of  trimming  were 
tossed  lightly  into  a  heap  of  debris. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  ,508 

Laddie  was  growling  and  choking  over  the  but- 
tons. Dorothy  afterward  carried  away  a  whole 
shovel  ful  of  pins  and  hooks  and  eyes. 

Nan  sat  down  by  her  mother  and  folded  her 
hands  on  her  lap.  When  men  were  masterful,  it 
was  time  for  maidens  to  sit  still.  Dulce  really 
looked  frightened,  but  Phillis  presently  broke  into 
a  laugh. 

"This  is  a  parable  of  nature,"  she  said.  "Mam- 
mie,  does  your  head  ache?  Would  you  like  to  go 
into  the  next  room?" 

44 There,  we  have  about  done!"  observed  Sir 
Harry.  44The  place  is  pretty  well  clear;  isn't  it, 
Mayne?"  And,  as  Dick  nodded  a  cheerful  assent, 
he  shut  the  door  of  the  wardrobe,  locked  it,  and, 
with  much  solemnity,  put  the  key  in  his  pocket. 
"Now  for  my  parable,"  he  said.  4tAunt  Catherine, 
you  will  excuse  a  bit  of  a  spree,  but  one  must  take 
the  high  hand  with  these  girls.  I  have  bundled  out 
the  whole  lot  of  trumpery;  but,  as  head  of  this 
family,  I  am  not  going  to  stand  any  more  of  this 
nonsense. ' ' 

44 Oh,  indeed!"  put  in  Phillis.  4<I  hope  Mrs. 
Squails  will  take  her  creased  gown.  Dulce,  the 
sewing-machine  is  right  on  the  top  of  it — a  most 
improving  process,  certainly." 

44  Now,  Phillis,  you  will  shut  up  with  your  non- 
sense! As  head  of  the  family,  I  am  not  going  to 
stand  any  more  of  this  sort  of  thing. " 

"What  sort  of  thing?"  asked  Mrs.  Challoner, 
timidly.  44My  dears,  I  thought  it  was  only  fun; 
but  1  do  believe  your  cousin  is  in  earnest." 

"I  am  quite  in  earnest,  Aunt  Catherine,"  re- 
turned Sir  Harry,  sitting  down  beside  her  and  tak- 
ing her  hand.  44I  hope  our  bit  of  larking  has  not 
been  too  much  for  you ;  but  that  fellow  vowed  it 
would  be  a  good  joke."  And  here  Dick's  eyes 
twinkled.  "If  Mrs.  Squails'  gown  is  spoiled,  I  will 
buy  her  another;  but  on  your  peril  girls,  if  you  put  a 
stitch  in  any  but  your  own,  from  this  day  forward!" 


504  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

"Please  your  honor  kindly,"  \vhined  Phillis,  drop- 
ping a  courtesy,  "and  what  will  your  honor  have  us 
do?" 

"Do!"  and  then  he  broke  into  a  laugh.  "Oh,  I 
will  tell  you  that  presently.  All  I  know  is,  Nan  is 
engaged  to  my  friend  Mayne,  here;  and  I  have 
promised  his  father,  on  my  word  as  a  gentleman 
and  head  of  this  family,  that  this  dressmaking 
humbug  shall  be  given  up. " 

"You  had  no  right  to  give  such  a  promise,"  re- 
turned Phillis,  offended  at  this;  but  Nan's  hand 
stole  into  Dick's.  She  understood  now. 

"But,  Harry,  my  dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Challoner, 
"what  would  you  have  them  do?" 

"Oh,  play  tennis — dance — flirt  if  they  like!  How 
do  young  ladies  generally  occupy  their  time? 
Don't  let  us  talk  about  such  petty  details  as  this. 
I  want  to  tell  you  about  my  new  house.  You  all 
know  Gilsbank?  Well,  it  is  'Challoner  Place' 
now." 

"You  have  bought  it,  Harry?" 

"Yes,  I  have  bought  it,"  he  returned,  coolly. 
"And  what  is  more,  I  hope  to  settle  down  there 
in  another  month's  time.  How  soon  do  you  think 
yoit  will  be  ready  to  move,  Aunt  Catherine?" 

"My  dear!"  in  a  voice  of  mild  astonishment.  But 
Duke  clapped  her  hands:  she  thougth  she  guessed 
his  meaning.  "Are  we  to  live  with  you,  Harry? 
Do  you  really  mean  to  take  us  with  you?" 

"Of  course  I  shall  take  you  with  me;  but  not  to 
Challoner  Place.  That  would  be  rather  close  quar- 
ters; and — and — I  may  make  different  arrange- 
ments," rather  sheepishly.  "Aunt  Catherine,  Glen 
Cottage  will  be  ready  for  you  and  the  girls.  I  have 
settled  about  the  furniture ;  and  Mrs.  Mayne  will 
have  the  fires  lighted  whenever  you  like  to  come 
down.  Why,  aunt — dear  Aunt  Catherine,"  as  he 
felt  her  thin  hand  tremble  in  his,  and  the  tears 
started  to  her  eyes,  "did  you  not  tell  me  how  much 
you  loved  your  old  home?  And  do  you  think  when 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  505 

you  have  no  son  to  take  care  of  you,  that  I  should 
ever  let  you  be  far  from  me?" 

44 Confound  you!"  growled  Dick.  "Is  not  a  son- 
in-law  as  good  as  a  son  any  day?" 

But  no  one  heard  this  but  Nan. 

Mrs.  Challoner  was  weeping  for  joy,  and  Dulce 
was  keeping  her  company;  but  Phillis  walked  up  to 
her  cousin  with  a  shamefaced  look: 

4II  am  sorry  I  called  you  a  Goth,  Harry.  1  ought 
to  have  remembered  Alcides.  You  are  as  good  as 
gold.  You  are  a  dear,  generous  fellow,  and  I  love 
you  for  it,  and  so  do  Nan  and  Dulce.  And  I  was 
not  a  bit  cross,  really ;  but  you  did  look  such  a  great 
goose,  turning  out  that  wardrobe."  But  though 
she  laughed  at  the  remembrance,  the  tears  were  in 
Phillis's  eyes. 

Dick  was  nobody  after  this:  not  that  he  minded 
that.  How  could  they  help  crowding  round  this 
44 big  hero"  of  theirs,  who  had  performed  such  won- 
ders? 

Gilsbank  turned  into  Challoner  Place ;  Glen  Cot- 
tage, with  its  conservatory  and  brand-new  furni- 
ture, theirs  again — their  own — their  very  own  (for 
Sir  Harry  intended  to  buy  that  too  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible) ;  Nan  engaged  to  her  dearest  Dick,  and  all 
the  neighborhood  prepared  to  welcome  them  back! 

4* If  you  please,  Miss  Phillis,  Mrs.  Squails  desires 
her  compliments,  and  she  is  waiting  for  her  dress." 

We  forbear  to  repeat  Sir  Harry's  answer.  Never- 
theless, with  Dick's  help,  the  unfortunate  gown  was 
extricated,  and  privately  ironed  by  Dorothy. 

44That  is  a  good  morning's  work  of  yours,"  ob- 
served Phillis,  quietly  looking  down  at  the  heap  at 
her  feet.  44  Dorothy,  it  seems  Sir  Harry  is  master 
here.  If  any  more  orders  come  for  us  you  may  as 
well  say,  *The  Misses  Challoners  have  given  up  bus- 


506  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 


CHAPTER   XLVII. 


Mrs.  Challoner  heaved  a  gentle  little  sigh  when 
in  the  afternoon  the  fly  carried  off  Nan  and  Dick  to 
the  station:  it  brought  to  her  mind  another  day 
that  would  come  far  too  soon.  Phillis  brought  out 
this  thought  boldly  as  she  ran  back  to  the  cottage. 

44I  wanted  to  throw  an  old  shoe  for  luck, 
mammie,"  she  said,  laughing,  "only  I  knew  Nan 
would  be  so  dreadfully  shocked.  How  happy  they 
looked!  And  Dick  was  making  such  a  fuss  over 
her,  bringing  out  his  plaid  to  wrap  her  in.  Cer- 
tainly he  is  much  improved,  and  looks  five  years 
older." 

Perhaps  Dick  shared  Mrs.  Challoner's  thought 
too,  for  an  expression  of  deep  gravity  crossed  his 
face  as  he  sat  down  by  Nan — a  look  that  was  ten- 
der, and  yet  wistful,  as  he  took  her  hand. 

44 Oh,  Nan!  it  does  seem  so  nice  to  have  you  all 
to  myself  for  a  little — just  you  and  I,  alone,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  world  outside  somewhere!  Do  you 
know  it  is  possible  to  be  almost  too  happy?"  And 
Dick  sighed  from  the  very  fullness  of  content 

Nan  gave  a  merry  little  laugh  at  this. 

4tOh,  no:  to  me  it  seems  only  natural  to  be 
happy.  When  things  were  at  their  worst  I  knew 
they  'would  come  right  some  day ;  and  1  could  not 
be  quite  miserable,  even  then.  It  was  hard,  of 
course ;  but  when  one  is  young,  one  ought  not  to 
mind  a  little  waiting.  And  we  have  not  waited 
long,  have  we,  dear?"  But  to  this  Dick  demurred. 

44 It  was  the  longest  term  I  ever  passed,"  he  re- 
turned, seriously.  44When  a  fellow  is  in  that  sort 
of  unsettled  state,  he  can  not  measure  time  in  the 
ordinary  way.  Well,  'the  ordeal  is  over,  thank 
Heaven!"  And  then  h£  paused,  and  continued,  a 


NCT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  50f 

little  thoughtfully:  "What  I  have  to  do  now  is  to 
work  hard  and  do  my  best  to  deserve  you.  I  shall 
never  be  worthy  of  you,  Nan;  I  know  that" 

"I  think  you  quite  worthy  of  me,"  she  answered, 
softly ;  and  now  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  no;  no  fellow  could  be  that,"  he  replied, 
decidedly.  "I  am  well  enough  in  my  way,  and, 
compared  with  other  men,  I  am  not  so  bad/'  con- 
tinued Dick,  who  had  a  sufficiently  good  opinion  of 
his  own  merits,  in  spite  of  the  humility  of  his 
speech;  "but  as  to  coming  up  to  you,  Nan,  by  a 
long  way,  why,  the  thing  is  impossible,!  But  I  tell 
you  this,  it  helps  a  fellow  to  keep  right  and  steady 
when  he  believes  in  the  goodness  of  the  girl  belong- 
ing to  him." 

"You  must  not  make  me  vain,"  she  half  whis- 
pered, and  her  lips  trembled  a  little  at  his  praise. 
But  he  disregarded  this  remonstrance,  and  went  on: 

"You  have  kept  me  right  all  my  life.  How  could 
I  ever  do  a  mean  or  a  shabby  action,  to  make  you 
ashamed  of  me?  When  I  was  tempted  once  or 
twice — for  idle  young  fellows  will  be  tempted — I 
used  to  say  to  myself,  No,  Nan  would  not  approve 
it  she  knew  it.  And  I  held  tight  to  this  thought, 
and  I  am  glad  now  that  I  can  look  in  your  dear  face 
and  tell  you  this.  It  makes  me  feel  so  happy. ' ' 
And  indeed  Dick's  face  was  radiant. 

They  were  almost  sorry  when  the  journey  was 
over;  they  had  so  much  to  say  to  each  other.  The 
wintry  landscape  was  growing  gray  and  indistinct 
as  they  reached  their  destination,  and  though  Nan 
peered  anxiously  into  the  darkness  for  a  glimpse  of 
each  well-remembered  spot,  she  could  only  just  dis- 
cern the  dim  outline  of  Glen  Cottage  before  the  car- 
riage turned  in  at  the  gates  of  Longmead. 

Mr.  Mayne  had  determined  to  pay  his  intended 
daughter-in-law  all  becoming  honors,  and  as  soon  as 
the  carnage  wheels  were  heard  he  had  the  hall  door 
thrown  back  to  show  the  bright,  welcoming  light, 
and  he  himself  descended  the  flight  of  steps  to  the 


501  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

terrace.  "Just  as  though  I  were  a  royal  person, 
age/'  laughed  Nan.  But  she  was  a  little  flattered 
by  the  compliment. 

Most  girls  would  have  felt  awkward  of  the  situa* 
tion,  but  not  Nan.  The  moment  Dick  assisted  he* 
out  of  the  carriage  she  walked  up  to  his  father,  ancj 
put  up  her  face  to  be  kissed  in  the  most  natural 
way.  "It  was  so  good  of  you  to  ask  me  here;  anc] 
I  was  so  glad  to  come/'  she  said,  simply. 

"There,  there!  run  in  out  of  the  cold,"  was  all 
his  answer;  and  he  patted  her  hand  a  little  awk- 
wardly. But,  though  his  voice  had  its  usual  gruff- 
ness,  his  manner  was  otherwise  kind.  "How  are 
you,  Dick?  I  hope  Roper  did  not  keep  you  waiting 
at  the  station,  for  you  are  a  quarter  of  an  hour  be- 
hind time."  And  then  he  took  his  son's  arm  and 
walked  up  the  steps  again. 

Nan,  meanwhile,  had  run  through  the  hall  and 
into  the  warm,  softly  lighted  drawing-room,  and 
there  she  soon  found  herself  in  Mrs.  Mayne's 
motherly  arms.  When  the  gentlemen  came  in  they 
interrupted  quite  a  little  scene,  for  Mrs.  Mayne  was 
actually  crying  over  the  girl,  and  Nan  was  kissing 
her. 

"Don't  you  think  you  had  better  stop  that  sort  of 
thing,  Bessie,"  observed  her  husband,  dryly,  "and 
get  Nan  a  cup  of  tea?  You  would  like  some  tea, 
my  dear,  would  you  not?"  in  a  more  gracious  voice. 

Of  course  Nan  said  she  would  like  some,  just  to 
show  her  appreciation  of  his  thoughtf illness;  and 
then  Dick  said  he  should  like  some  too,  and  his 
father  quizzed  him  a  little  as  he  rang  the  bell. 
And  as  Mrs.  Mayne  obediently  dried  her  eyes  at 
her  husband's  behest,  they  were  soon  very  happy 
and  comfortable.  When  Nan's  cup  was  empty, 
Dick  darted  to  take  it,  that  it  might  be  replenished; 
but  his  father  was  before  him. 

All  that  evening  Mr.  Mayne  waited  on  Nan,  quite 
ignoring  his  son's  claims.  He  had  a  special  brand 
champagne  served  that  Nan  had  once  said  she 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  509 

liked;  and  he  reminded  her  of  this,  and  pressed  her 
to  partake  of  it. 

"This  is  to  your  health,  my  dear,"  he  said,  lifting 
his  glass  of  port  to  his  lips  when  the  servants  had 
withdrawn;  4t and  to  yours  too,  Dick."  And  then 
Nan  blushed  very  becomingly,  and  Dick  thanked 
him  a  little  gravely. 

44 1  do  think  the  old  boy  has  fallen  in  love  with 
you  himself,  for  he  has  not  let  me  come  near  you 
all  the  evening,"  whispered  Dick  later  on  that 
night,  pretending  to  grumble,  but  in  reality  looking 
very  happy. 

4 'He  has  been  so  good  to  me,"  returned  the  girl; 
and  she  repeated  this  for  Mrs.  Mayne's  benefit, 
when  at  last  the  two  women  found  themselves  free 
to  indulge  in  a  little  talk.  Nan  had  coaxed  her 
friend  to  sit  beside  the  fire  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  she  had  knelt  down  beside  her,  wrapping  her 
arms  round  her  in  the  most  affectionate  way. 

44 Dear,  dear  Mrs.  Mayne,  how  nice  all  this  is!  and 
how  good  Mr.  Mayfne  has  been  to  me  all  this  eve- 
ning!" 

44 My  Richard  never  does  things  by  halves,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Mayne,  proudly.  44  People  can  not 
always  understand  him,  because  his  manner  is  a 
little  rough  sometimes;  but  I  know,  and  none  bet- 
ter, his  real  goodness  of  heart.  Why,  he  is  so 
pleased  with  himself  and  you  and  Dick  this  evening 
that  he  hardly  knows  how  to  contain  himself ;  but  he 
is  a  little  awkward  in  showing  it." 

44Oh,  no;  I  did  not  think  him  awkward  at  all." 

44 1  must  say  you  behaved  beautifully,  Nan,  never 
seeming  as  though  you  remembered  that  there  had 
been  anything  amiss,  but  just  taking  everything  as 
he  meant  it.  Of  course  1  knew  how  you  would  act: 
I  was  not  afraid  that  I  should  be  disappointed." 

44 Of  course  I  could  not  do  otherwise." 

44And  Dick,  too,  behaved  so  well,  keeping  in  the 
background  just  to  give  his  father  full  freedom.  I 
must  say  1  was  pleased  with  him,  too,  for  most 


510  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

young  men  are  so  thoughtless;  but,  then,  his  be- 
havior to  his  father  has  been  perfect  throughout." 

"I  knew  it  would  be,"  whispered  Nan. 

"I  am  sure  it  made  my  heart  ache  to  see  him. 
Sometimes  he  would  come  in  whistling  and  pre- 
tending to  be  his  old  self,  so  light-hearted  and 
cheerful;  and  all  the  time  he  was  fretting  himself 
to  death,  as  I  told  Richard.  Richard  was  terribly 
trying  sometimes— you  know  his  way — but  the  boy 
bore  it  so  well.  It  was  not  till  the  last,  when  they 
had  that  walk,  and  Dick  was  goaded  into  positive 
anger,  that  he  ever  lost  his  temper  in  the  least.  I 
will  say  this,  Nan,  that  though  my  Dick  may  not  be 
much  to  look  at,  he  has  the  sweetest  temper  and  the 
kindest  heart."  And  so  the  simple  woman  ran  on, 
and  Nan  listened,  well  pleased. 

When  Mr.  Mayne  came  up  to  his  dressing-room 
that  evening,  his  wife  stole  in  after  him  and  laid 
her  hands  on  his  shoulder  as  he  stood  thoughtfully 
contemplating  the  fire. 

44  Well,  Richard,  won't  you  own  she  is  lovely 
now?" 

4 'Humph!  yes;  I  suppose  people  would  call  her 
pretty,"  he  returned,  in  his  grudging  way.  "But  I 
tell  you  what,  Bessie,"  suddenly  kindling  into  ani- 
mation, 44she  is  better  than  handsome;  she  is  out 
and  out  good,  and  she  will  make  a  man  of  Dick." 

"G'/d  bless  him,  and  her  too!"  whispered  the 
mother,  as  she  withdrew  softly,  but  not  before  she 
caught  the  sound  cf  an  44Amen,"  uttered  distinctly 
in  her  husband's  voice. 

Nan  made  Dick  take  her  to  all  their  old  haunts 
the  next  morning;  but  first  of  all  they  went  to  Glen 
Cottage.  Nan  ran  through  all  the  rooms  with 
almost  a  child's  glee:  nothing  could  exceed  her  de- 
light when  Dick  showed  her  the  drawing-room,  with 
the  new  conservatory  opening  out  of  it. 

44 It  always  was  a  pretty  room,"  she  said,  glanc- 
ing round  her;  "but  the  conservatory  and  the  new 
furniture  have  quite  transformed  it.  How  charmed 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  511 

mother  and  the  girls  will  be!      The  whole  house 
looks  better  than  when  we  were  in  it." 

•'* Nonsense !"  returned  Dick,  stoutly.  "There 
never  was  a  house  to  compare  with  it.  I  always 
loved  it,  and  so  did  you,  Nan.  What  a  summer  we 
shall  have  here,  when  I  am  reading  up  for  honors 
in  the  long  vacation!  I  mean  to  work  pretty  hard; 
for  when  a  fellow  has  such  an  object  as  that — " 
And  then  he  looked  at  Nan  meaningly;  but  she  was 
not  to  be  beguiled  into  that  subject. 

They  were  so  happy  and  so  young  that  they  could 
afford  to  wait  a  little;  and  she  did  not  wish  Dick  to 
speak  yet  of  that  day  that  was  looming  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

She  could  only  be  sure  of  one  summer  at  Glen 
Cottage;  but  what  a  time  they  would  have!  She 
stood  for  a  long  while  looking  out  on  the  lawn  and 
calling  up  possible  visions  of  summer  afternoons. 
The  tennis-ground  was  marked  out  already  in  her 
imagination;  the  tea-table  in  its  old  place  under 
the  trees;  there  was  her  mother  knitting  in  her 
favorite  wicker-chair;  there  were  Dulce  and  Phillis 
surrounded  by  their  friends. 

"Come  away,  Nan.  Are  you  moon-struck,  or 
dreaming?"  questioned  Dick,  drawing  her  arm 
through  his.  "Do  you  remember  what  we  have  to 
do  before  luncheon?  And  Vigo  looks  so  impatient 
for  his  run."  But  even  Dick  paused  for  a  moment 
in  the  veranda  to  show  Nan  the  roses  she  had 
picked  for  him  just  there,  and  which  still  lay  in  his 
pocket-book. 

All  her  old  friends  crowded  round  Nan  to  wel- 
come her  back ;  and  great  were  the  rejoicings  when 
they  heard  that  Glen  Cottage  was  to  be  in  the  Chal- 
loner's  possession  again.  Carrie  Paine  and  Ade- 
laide Sartoris  called  first.  Carrie  embraced  Nan 
with  tearful  effusion:  she  was  an  honest,  warm- 
heartec  creature.  But  Adelaide  looked  at  her  a  lit- 
tle curiously. 

44 Oh,  my  dear,  the  scandal  that  has  been  talked 


512  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

about  you  all!"  she  said,  in  a  mysterious  tone. 
"Carrie  and  I  would  not  believe  it:  could  we,  Car? 
We  told  people  to  hold  their  tongues  and  not  talk 
such  nonsense." 

44 Never  mind  that  now,  Addie,"  returned  Nan, 
cheerfully.  She  felt  she  must  be  careful  of  what 
she  said,  for  Dick's  sake.  "We  have  had  our  wor- 
ries, and  have  worked  as  better  people  have  before 
us;  but  now  it  is  all  over." 

4 'But  is  it  true  that  your  cousin,  Sir  rfenry  Chal- 
loner,  has  bought  Gilsbank?"  broke  in  Carrie. 
4  *  Tell  us  about  him,  dear.  Addie  thought  she  saw 
him  once.  Is  he  a  tall  man  with  red  hair?" 

44 Very  red  hair,"  responded  Nan,  laughing. 

4*Then  I  did  see  him,"  replied  Miss  Sartoris,  de- 
cidedly. "He  is  quite  a  giant,  Nan;  but  he  looks 
very  good-natured." 

Miss  Sartoris  was  just  engaged  to  a  dapper  little 
colonel  in  the  hussars,  so  she  could  afford  to  be 
quizzed  on  the  subject  of  Sir  Harry's  inches;  but 
Carrie,  who  was  at  present  unattached,  was  a  little 
curious  about  the  future  of  Gilsbank. 

After  this,  Nan  called  at  Fitzroy  Lodge,  and  Dick 
went  with  her.  Lady  Fitzroy,  who  was  looking 
very  pretty  and  delicate,  welcomed  Nan  with  the 
greatest  kindness.  When  Lord  Fitzroy  came  in 
with  the  rest  of  the  gentlemen  from  hunting,  he 
questioned  Nan  very  closely  about  their  new  neigh- 
bor, Sir  Henry  Challoner,  and  made  a  great  many 
inquiries  after  his  favorite,  Miss  Phillis. 

4  *  So  we  are  to  have  you  all  back,  eh?"  he  quer- 
ried,  pleasantly.  44Well,  I  call  that  good  news.  I 
am  bound  that  Evelyn  is  as  pleased  to  hear  it  as  I 
am." 

44 1  am  very  much  pleased,"  returned  Lady  Fitz- 
roy, graciously.  *  And  you  must  tell  your  mother 
so,  with  my  love.  Percival,  will  you  ring  for  some 
more  hot  water,  please?  I  shall  not  be  long:  but  A 
am  going  to  take  Miss  Challoner  upstairs  to  see  our 
boy. 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  513 

Nan  knew  that  a  great  privilege  was  being  con- 
ferred on  her  as  she  followed  Lady  Fitzroy  into  the 
grand  nursery,  where  the  tiny  heir  lay  in  his  ba3si- 
net. 

"Is  he  not  just  like  Fitzroy?"  exclaimed  the 
proud  young  mother,  as  they  stood  looking  down  on 
the  red,  crumpled  features  of  the  new-comer, 
"Nurse  says  she  has  never  seen  such  a  striking 
likeness." 

"He  is  a  darling!"  exclaimed  Nan,  who  was,  like 
other  girls,  a  devout  baby-worshiper;  then  they 
discoursed  very  eloquently  on  his  infantile  beauties. 

It  was  after  this  that  Lady  Fitzroy  congratulated 
Nan  on  her  engagement,  and  kissed  her  in  quite  a 
sisterly  way. 

"Fitzroy  and  I  do  not  think  him  half  good  enough 
for  you,"  she  said,  very  prettily,  "But  no  one 
who  knows  Mr.  Mayne  can  fail  to  like  him,  he  is  so 
thoroughly  genuine  and  nice.  Will  the  engagement 
be  a  long  one,  Miss  Challoner?" 

"Not  so  very  long/'  Nan  returned,  blushing. 
"Dick  has  to  read  for  honors;  but  when  he  has 
taken  his  degree  his  tather  has  promised  to  make 
things  straight  for  us,  while  Dick  reads  for  the 
bar," 

"He  is  to  be  a  barrister,  then?"  asked  Lady  Fitz- 
roy, in  surprise.     "You  must  not  think  me  inquis-/ 
itive,  but  I  thought  Mr.   Mavne  was  so  very  well 
off." 

"So  he  is,"  replied  Nan,  smiling — "quite  rich,  I 
believe;  but  Dick  would  not  like  an  idle  life,  and 
during  his  father's  life-time  he  can  only  expect  a 
moderate  income." 

"You  will  live  in  London,  then?" 

"Oh,  yes;  I  suppose  so,"  was  Nan's  answer. 
"But  we  have  not  talked  much  about  that  yet. 
Dick  must  work  hard  for  another  year,  and  after 
that  1  believe  things  are  to  be  settled."  And  then 
Lady  Fitzroy  kissed  her  again,  and  they  went 
down-stairs. 

IS  Girt* 


M4  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Nan  wrote  home  that  she  was  feted  like  a  queen, 
and  that  Dick  grumbled  sadly  at  having  her  so  little 
to  himself;  but  then  Dick  was  much  given  to  that 
sort  of  good-natured  grumbling. 

The  visit  was  necessarily  a  very  brief  one,  as 
term-time  was  approaching,  and  Dick  had  to  go  up 
to  Oxford.  On  the  last  morning  he  took  Nan  for  a 
walk  down  to  Sandy  Lane.  Vigo  and  the  other 
dogs  were  with  them,  and  at  the  point  where  the 
four  roads  met,  Dick  stopped  and  leaned  his  arms 
over  a  gate. 

"It  will  be  a  long  time  to  Easter,  Nan,"  he  said, 
rather  lugubriously. 

44 Oh,  no,"  she  replied  brightly  to  this;  "you  will 
have  my  letters — such  long  ones,  Dick — and  you 
know  Mr.  Mayne  has  promised  to  bring  Phillis  and 
me  down  for  a  couple  of  days.  We  are  to  stay  at 
the  Randolph,  and  of  course  we  shall  have  after- 
noon tea  in  your  rooms." 

"Yes;  I  will  ask  Hamilton  and  some  of  the  other 
fellows  to  meet  you.  I  want  all  my  friends  to  see 
you,  Nan."  And  as  Dick  thought  of  the  glory  of 
this  introduction,  and  of  the  envy  of  Hamilton  and 
the  other  fellows,  his  brow .  cleared  and  his  old 
spirits  returned. 

"I  shall  think  of  nothing  but  my  work  and  those 
letters,  Nan,"  were  his  last  words.  "I  am  deter- 
mined that  next  summer  shall  see  you  my  wife. " 
His  voice  dropped  over  the  last  words  almost  shyly, 
but  Nan  saw  a  great  brightness  come  into  his  eyes. 

"You  must  not  work  too  hard/'  was  all  her 
answer  to  this,  as  she  moved  gently  away  from 
him.  But  her  heart  beat  a  little  faster  at  his 
words.  No;  she  would  only  have  another  summer 
at  Glen  Cottage  She  knew'that,  and  then  the  new 
life  would  lie  before  them,  which  she  and  Dick 
were  to  live  together, 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  516 

CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

MRS.  SPARSIT'S  POODLE. 

While  Nan  was  being  feted  and  petted  at  Long- 
mead,  Mattie's  visit  was  dragging  heavily  to  its 
close.  Since  the  evening  of  the  tea-party  things 
had  been  more  unsatisfactory  than  ever. 

Archie  and  Grace  were  a  good  deal  out.  Grace 
was  perpetually  at  the  Friary,  and  Archie  had 
resumed  his  old  habit  of  dropping  in  there  for  a 
morning  or  evening  chat.  Sir  Harry  came  almost 
daily,  and  often  spent  his  disengaged  hours  with 
them;  but  Mattie  never  saw  him  for  a  moment 
alone.  Grace  was  always  in  the  room,  and  his  con- 
versation was  chiefly  addressed  to  her.  When 
Mattie  dropped  sadly  out  of  the  talk,  or  sat  silent 
in  her  corner,  he  did  not,  in  his  old  kind  fashion, 
try  to  include  her  in  the  conversation :  indeed,  he 
rarely  noticed  her,  except  in  his  brief  leave-taking. 
It  hurt  Mattie  inexpressibly  to  be  thus  ignored  by 
her  old  friend,  for  from  the  first  his  cordiality  had 
had  a  sunshiny  influence  over  her — he  had  been  so 
good  to  her,  so  thoughtful  for  her  comfort,  before 
Grace  came ;  but  now  he  seemed  to  forget  some- 
times that  such  a  person  as  Mattie  even  existed. 
Was  it  because  Grace's  fair,  serious  face  had 
bewitched  him,  or  was  there  anything  on  his  mind? 
for  more  than  once  Mattie  thought  he  seemed 
absent  and  ill  at  ease. 

Mattie  could  not  understand  it  at  all.  She  was 
not  a  very  acute  little  person,  neither  was  she  over- 
sensitive by  nature,  but  this  sudden  coldness  on  Sir 
Harry's  part  was  wounding  and  perplexing  in  the 
extreme.  Had  she  done  anything  to  offend  him? 
Mattie  wondered,  or  was  he  simply  bored  by  her, 
as  most  people  were? 

Once  Archie  had  snubbed  her  very  severely  in 


616  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

his  presence;  something1  had  put  him  out,  and  he 
had  spoken  to  Mattie  as  though  no  one  were  present 
but  their  two  selves.  It  was  Grace  who  called  him 
so  gently  to  order,  and  made  him  feel  ashamed  of 
himself.  Sir  Harry  did  not  even  seem  to  notice  it: 
he  had  a  paper  in  his  hand,  and  he  went  on  reading 
it.  But  as  Mattie  left  the  room  she  heard  him 
speaking  to  Grace  in  his  usual  way  about  some 
political  question  or  other. 

Mattie  cried  bitterly  in  her  room  that  day. 
Somehow,  she  had  never  taken  Archie's  snubbing 
so  much  to  heart  before.  How  could  he  speak  to 
her  like  that?  she  thought.  What  would  Sir  Harry 
think  of  her,  and  of  him,  too?  Archie's  conscience 
pricked  him  when  he  saw  the  traces  of  tears  on 
Mattie's  face  that  afternoon,  and  he  was  very  kind 
to  her  all  the  remainder  of  the  day;  but  he  did  not 
apologize  for  his  words;  no  one  ever  did  apologize 
to  Mattie.  But  to  his  surprise,  and  Grace's  too, 
Mattie's  sad  face  did  not  clear. 

It  was  her  last  afternoon  but  one  at  the  vicarage, 
and  Mattie  was  sitting  alone.  All  the  morning  she 
and  Grace  had  been  packing  together,  for  Grace,  in 
her  sensible  way,  had  begged  hersister  not  to  leave 
things  for  the  last  day.  It  would  tire  her  for  her 
journey,  she  said;  and  the  Challoners  were  coming 
to  spend  Mattie's  last  evening  with  her  at  the  vic- 
arage ;  and  there  were  the  Middletons  probably  coin- 
ing for  an  afternoon  visit,  and  so  Mattie  had  better 
keep  herself  free  for,  her  friends.  Mattie  had 
assented  to  this,  and  she  had  been  very  grateful  to 
Grace  for  all  the  help  she  had  given  her.  Her  boxes 
were  ready  for  cording,  and  her  little  parting  gifts 
tor  the  servants  lay  ready  labeled  in  her  drawers, 
and  nothing  remained  for  her  busy  hands  to  do. 

It  was  a  cold, cheerless  afternoon  ;  a  cutting  north 
wind  and  a  gray  cloudy  sky  made  the  fireside  all  the 
more  tempting  by  comparison;  but  Mattie  knew 
there  was  one  duty  unfulfilled  that  she  ought  to 
perform.  She  had  promised  to  call  and  say  good- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  51? 

bye  to  an  old  acquaintance  of  hers  who  lived  at 
Rock  Building. 

Mrs.  Chamberlain  was  not  a  favorite  with  most 
people :  she  was  an  invalid  of  somewhat  uncertain 
temper,  and  most  of  her  friends  felt  her  society  an 
infliction  on  their  patience.  Mattie,  who  was  very 
good-natured,  had  often  done  kindly  little  offices 
for  her,  sitting  with  her  for  an  hour  or  two  at  a 
time,  and  teaching  her  some  new  stitch,  to  beguile 
her  tedious  and  often  painful  days. 

Mrs.  Chamberlain  would  feel  herself  aggrieved  if 
Mattie  disappointed  her.  And  she  never  had 
stayed  at  home  for  the  weather;  only  she  was  lazy 
— tired,  perhaps,  from  her  packing — and  reluctant 
to  move. 

Sir  Harry  was  in  the  study,  she  knew;  she  had 
heard  his  voice  some  time  ago.  He  often  turned  in 
there  of  his  own  accord,  or  perhaps  Archie  had  way- 
laid him  and  brought  him  in,  for  they  were  excel- 
lent friends  now;  Grace  was  there,  of  course,  but 
Mattie  had  hesitated  to  join  them:  none  of  them 
wanted  her,  she  said  bitterly  to  herself. 

A  dim  hope  that  Grace  might  come  in  search  of 
her,  or  that  even  Sir  Henry  might  saunter  in  by 
and  by  and  ask  for  a  cup  of  tea  in  his  old  way,  had 
kept  Mattie  in  her  place:  but  now  it  was  getting  a 
little  late,  and  perhaps  after  all  Grace  would  ring, 
and  have  the  tea  in  there,  as  she  had  done  once 
before;  and  it  was  no  use  waiting.  And  so,  when 
Mattie  reached  this  point,  she  hurried  upstairs  and 
put  on  her  hat  and  thick  jacket,  and  then,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  opened  the  study  door. 

It  was  just  the  scene  she  pictured.  Sir  Harry 
was  in  the  big  chair  in  front  of  the  blazing  fire,  and 
Grace  in  her  low  wicker  seat,  facing  him,  with  a 
Chinese  screen  in  her  hand.  Archie  was  standing 
on  the  rug,  with  his  elbow  against  the  narrow 
wooden  mantel-piece,  and  all  three  were  talking 
merrily,  Sir  Harry  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a 


518  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

laugh  as  Mattie  entered,  and  shook  hands  with  her 
a  little  gravely. 

"How  comfortable  you  all  look!"  faltered  Mattie. 
The  words  came  in  spite  of  her  efforts  not  to  say 
them. 

"Then  come  and  join  us/'  returned  Archie,  with 
unusual  affability.  "Grace  was  just  wondering 
what  you  were  doing." 

"1  was  in  the  drawing-room  alone.  No,  I  can 
not  sit  down,  Archie,  thank  you.  I  am  just  going 
to  bid  old  Mrs.  Chamberlain  good-bye;  she  is 
expecting  me,  and  I  must  not  disappoint  her." 

"Oh,  but  it  is  not  fit  for  you,"  remonstrated 
Grace.  "Sir  Harry  says  the  wind  is  piercing.  Do 
put  off  your  visit  until  to-morrow,  Mattie,  and  we 
will  go  together/' 

"Fy,  Miss  Grace!  never  put  off  until  to-morrow 
what  can  be  done  to-day,"  observed  Sir  Harry,  in 
his  joking  voice.  "What  is  it  the  copy-books  say? 
Is  it  procrastination  or  money  that  is  the  root  of  all 
evil?" 

"Sir  Harry  is  quite  right,  and  I  must  go,"  stam- 
mered Mattie,  made  quite  desperate  by  this  joke; 
he  knew  how  the  wind  was  sweeping  over  the  gray 
sea,  and  yet  he  had  not  said  a  word  about  her 
remaining.  Poor  Mattie !  a  miserable  choking  feel- 
ing came  into  her  throat  as  she  closed  the  door  on 
another  laugh  and  struggled  along  in  the  teeth  of 
the  wind.  Another  time  she  would  not  have  minded 
it,  for  she  was  hardy  by  nature ;  but  now  the  cold 
seemed  to  freeze  her  very  heart;  she  looked  quite 
blue  and  pinched  when  she  entered  Mrs.  Chamber- 
lain's drawing-room.  It  seemed  to  Mattie  as  though 
hours  had  passed  before  she  brought  her  visit  to  a 
close,  and  yet  she  had  been  sitting  there  only  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  before  she  took  her  leave.  The 
old  lady  was  very  gracious  this  afternoon;  she 
pressed  Mattie  again  and  again  to  wait  a  little  until 
Sallie  brought  up  the  tea  and  a  nice  hot  cake  she 
was  baking.  But  Mattie  steadily  refused  even  these 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  51$ 

tempting  delicacies:  she  was  not  cold  any  longer, 
she  said;  but  it  was  growing  late,  or  the  afternoon 
was  darker  than  usual.  And  then  she  wished  her 
old  friend  good-bye — oh,  good-bye  for  such  a  long 
time,  Mattie  thought — and  sallied  forth  bravely  into 
the  wind  again. 

It  had  lulled  a  little,  but  the  scene  before  her 
was  very  desolate;  just  the  gray  expanse  of  sea, 
with  the  white  line  of  surge  breaking  into  the 
shore,  and  here  and  there  a  wave  tossing  up  its 
foamy  head  in  the  distance.  The  air  seemed  full  of 
that  continuous  low  rolling  and  splashing  of  break- 
ers on  the  beach;  a  sea-gull  was  flying  inland;  the 
Parade  looked  white  and  wind-bleached — not  a 
creature  in  sight  but  a  coast-guard  on  duty,  moving 
backward  and  forward  in  a  rather  forlorn  manner, 
except — .  Here  Mattie  turned  her  head  quickly; 
yes,  a  little  beyond  there  was  a  man  in  a  rough 
pilot's  coat,  looking  out  seaward — a  nautical  man, 
Mattie  thought,  by  the  way  he  stood,  as  though 
summer  gales  were  blowing  about  his  ears. 

Mattie  passed  quite  close  to  him,  for  the  wind 
drifted  her  a  little  as  she  did  so.  He  turned  coolly 
round  and  confronted  her. 

44 Sir  Harry!  Oh,  I  did  not  know  you  in  the 
least,"  faltered  Mattie,  standing  still  in  surprise. 

44 1  dare  say  not,"  he  replied,  quietly:  "you  have 
never  seen  me  in  this  costume  before,  and  I  had 
my  back  turned  toward  you.  I  saw  you  coming, 
though,  walking  as  unsteadily  as  a  duck  in  a  storm. 
What  a  time  you  have  been,  Miss  Mattie  I  You 
ladies  are  so  fond  of  a  gossip. " 

44 Were  you  waiting  for  me?"  she  asked,  rather 
breathlessly,  and  then  colored  painfully  at  her  ques- 
tion. How  absurd !  Of  course  he  was  not  waiting 
for  her;  his  hotel  was  just  opposite,  and  he  was 
probably  taking  a  constitutional  before  his  dinner. 
44  Mrs.  Chamberlain  pressed  me  to  take  tea  with 
her,"  she  went  on,  by  way  of  saying  something, 
"but  I  told  her  I  would  rather  go  home/' 


520  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 

"Miss  Grace  was  just  ringing  for  tea  when  I  left," 
he  returned.  "No  wonder  you  look  cold  or  like  a 
starved  robin,  Miss  Mattie.  Why  are  you  walking 
so  fast?  there  is  no  hurry,  is  there?  I  think  you 
owe  me  some  amends  for  keeping  me  standing  for 
an  hour  in  this  bitter  wind.  There!  why  don't  you 
take  my  arm  and  hold  on,  or  you  will  be  blown 
away?" 

Mattie  always  did  as  she  was  bidden,  and  Sir 
Harry's  tone  was  a  little  peremptory.  He  had  been 
waiting  for  her,  then;  he  had  not  quite  forgotten 
her.  Mattie  began  to  feel  a  little  less  chilled  and 
numb.  If  he  would  only  say  a  kind  word  to  her, 
she  thought,  she  could  go  away  more  happily. 

"I  am  thinking  about  that  rejected  cup  of  tea," 
he  said,  suddenly,  when  they  had  walked  for  a 
moment  in  silence:  "it  will  be  all  cleared  away  at 
the  vicarage,  and  you  do  look  so  cold,  Miss  Mattie." 

"Oh,  no,  not  very,"  she  corrected. 

"But  I  say  that  you  do,"  he  persisted,  in  quite  a 
determined  manner:  'you  are  cold  and  tired  and 
miserable — there !" 

"I — I  am  not  particularly  miserable;"  but  there 
were  tears  in  Mattie's  voice  as  she  uttered  this  little 
fib.  "I  don't  quite  like  going  away  and  saying 
good-bye  to  people." 

"Won't  your  people  be  kind  to  you?"  Then 
changing  his  tone,  "I  tell  you  what,  Miss  Mattie, 
no  one  is  in  a  hurry  for  you  at  home,  and  I  don't 
see  why  we  should  not  enjoy  ourselves.  You 
remember  my  old  friend  Mrs.  Sparsit,  who  lives  up 
at  Rose  Cottage — you  know  I  saved  her  poodle  from 
drowning  one  rough  day,  when  some  boys  got  hold 
of  it:  well,  Mrs.  Sparsit  and  I  are  first-rate  friends, 
and  I  will  ask  her  to  give  us  some  tea. " 

"Oh,  no,"  faltered  Mattie,  quite  shocked  at  this; 
for  what  would  Grace  say?  "I  only  know  Mrs. 
Sparsit  a  very  little." 

"What  does  that  matter?"  returned  Sir  Harry. 
obstinately:  "I  am  always  dropping  in  myself  for  a 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  521 

chat.  Now,  it  is  no  use  your  making  any  objection, 
Miss  Mattie,  for  I  have  got  a  lot  to  say  to  you,  and 
I  don't  mean  to  part  with  you  yet.  They  will  only 
think  you  are  still  at  Rock  Building,  and  I  suppose 
you  are  old  enough  to  act  without  Miss  Grace's 
advice  sometimes." 

Mattie  hung  her  head  without  replying  to  this. 
'What  a  feeble,  helpless  sort  of  creature  he  must 
think  her!  his  voice  seemed  to  express  a  good- 
humored  sort  of  contempt.  Well,  he  was  right;  she 
was  old  enough  to  do  as  she  pleased,  and  she  would 
like  very  much  to  go  with  him  to  Mrs.  Sparsit's. 
It  was  rather  a  reckless  proceeding,  perhaps;  but 
Mattie  was  too  down  and  miserable  to  argue  it  out, 
so  she  walked  beside  Sir  Harry  in  a  perfectly 
unresisting  manner.  Perhaps  this  was  the  last  time 
she  would  enjoy  his  company  for  a  long  time:  she 
must  make  the  most  of  it. 

44 We  need  not  walk  quite  so  fast,"  he  said,  check- 
ing her,  for  she  was  hurrying  again.  "Look  here, 
Miss  Mattie,  I  want  to  ask' you  a  queer  sort  of  ques- 
tion, if  only  this  confounded  wind  will  let  me  make 
myself  heard.  Please  don't  laugh;  I  don't  want  to 
be  laughed  at,  for  I  am  quite  in  earnest,  But  have 
yon  any  special  objection  to  red  hair?  I  mean,"  do 
you  particularly  dislike  it?'9 

Mattie  opened  her  eyes  rather  widely  at  this. 
"No,  I  rather  like  it,"  sh3  returned,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation,  and  quite  in  the  dark  as  to  his 
possible  meaning. 

44Oh,  that  is  all  right,"  he  returned,  cheerfully. 
"You  won't  believe  it,  Miss  Mattie,  but,  though  I 
am  such  a  great  big  fellow,  I  am  as  bashful  as  any- 
thing; and  I  have  always  had  a  fancy  that  no  one 
would  have  me  because  of  my  red  hair," 

"What  an  idea!"  observed  Mattie,  with  a  little 
laugh,  for  she  thought  this  so  droll,  and  had  not 
the  dimmest  idea  of  his  real  purpose  in  asking  her 
such  a  question. 

"Don't  laugh,    please,*'  he  remonstrated,  "for  I 

84  Other  Girls 


H22  NOT  LIKE  OTHEk  GIRLS. 

am  quite  serious;  I  never  was  more  serious  in  my 
life;  for  this  sort  of  thing  is  so  awkward  for  a  fel- 
low. Then,  Miss  Mattie,  you  won't  say  'No*  to 
me?" 

Mattie  stared;  but  Sir  Harry's  face  red  and 
embarrassed  as  it  was,  gave  her  no  clew  to  his 
meaning. 

"I  don't  think  you  understand  me,"  he  said,  a 
little  impatiently;  "and  yet  I  am  sure  I  am  putting 
it  very  plainly.  You  don't  object  to  me,  do  you, 
Miss  Mattie?  I  am  sure  I  will  do  my  best  to  make 
you  happy.  Gilsbank  is  a  pretty  place,  and  we 
shall  have  Aunt  Catherine  and  the  girls  near  us. 
We  shall  all  be  as  merry  as  larks,  if  you  will  only 
promise  to  marry  me,  for  I  have  liked  you  from  the 
first;  I  have  indeed,  Miss  Mattie." 

Sir  Harry  was  a  gentleman,  in  spite  of  his  rough 
ways.  He  understood  in  a  moment,  when  Mattie's 
answer  to  this  was  a  very  feeble  clutch  at  his  arm, 
as  though  her  strength  were  deserting  her.  What 
with  the  sudden  surprise  of  these  words,  and  the 
force  of  the  wind,  the  poor  little  woman  felt  herself 
reeling. 

"Stand  here  for  a  moment,  and  I  will  shelter  you 
from  the  wind.  No,  don't  speak;  just  hold  on, 
and  keep  quiet:  there  is  no  hurry.  No  one  shall 
scold  you,  if  I  can  help  it.  I  am  a  little  afraid" — 
speaking  as  gently  as  to  a  child — "that  I  have  been 
a  little  rough  and  sudden  with  you.  Do  you  feel 
faint?  I  never  saw  you  look  so  pale.  What  a 
thoughtless  brute  I  have  been!" 

"No — oh,  no,"  panted  Mattie;  *'only  I  am  so 
giddy,  and — so  happy."  The  last  words  were  half 
whispered,  but  he  caught  them.  "Are  you  sure  you 
really  mean  this,  Sir  Harry?" 

"As  sure  as  that  the  wind  blows,"  he  returned, 
cheerfully.  "Well,  that's  settled.  You  and  I  are 
to  be  in  the  same  boat  for  good  and  all — eh,  Miss 
Mattie?  Now  let  us  walk  on,  and  I  won't  say 
another  word  until  we  reach  Mrs.  Sparsit's. " 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  523 

Perhaps  he  had  taken  this  resolution  because  he 
saw  that  Mattie  found  speech  impossible.  Her 
very  footsteps  tottered  as  she  struggled  against  the 
opposing  wind.  Only  the  arnj  on  which  she  leaned 
seemed  to  give  her  strength;  and  yet  Mattie  no 
longer  shivered  in  the  cutting  blasU  She  was  no 
longer  cold  and  numb  and  desolate.  Something 
wonderful  and  incredible  and  altogether  unreal  had 
befallen  her — something  that  had  turned  her  dizzy 
with  happiness,  and  which  she  could  not  in  the  least 
believe.  All  she  knew  was  that  he  had  told  her 
that  no  one  should  scold  her  now. 

"Here  we  are!"  exclaimed  Sir  Harry,  stopping  at 
a  trim  little  cottage,  with  a  side  view  of  the  sea; 
"and,  by  Jove!  there  is  the  poodle  himself  at  the 
window.  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Sparsit?"  as  a 
pleasant,  wrinkled  dame  appeared  on  the  threshold. 
"You  know  Miss  Drummond,  I  believe?  though  not 
as  well  as  you  know  me.  How  is  Popples?  Oh, 
there  you  are,  old  fellow — ready  to  give  me  your 
paw,  as  usual!  Look  at  him,  Miss  Mattie!  Now, 
Mrs.  Sparsit,"  in  a  coaxing  voice,  "this  lady  is 
dreadfully  tired;  and  I  know  your  kettle  is  boil- 
ing— "  but  here  Mrs.  Sparsit  interrupted  him: 

44 Oh,  yes,  indeed,  Sir  Harry;  and  you  shall  have 
some  tea  directly.  Dear  me,  Miss  Drummond,  you 
do  look  poorly,  to  be  sure!  Let  me  stir  the  fire  a 
little,  and  draw  out  the  couch.  Bettie  has  gone  out 
to  see  her  sick  mother,  Sir  Harry;  but  if  you  don't 
mind  my  leaving  you  a  minute,  while  I  just  brew 

the  tea "      And  without  waiting  for  his  answer, 

the  worthy  creature  bustled  off  to  her  tiny  kitchen, 
leaving  Popples  to  entertain  her  guests. 

Sir  Harry  closed  the  door,  and  then  he  helped 
Mattie  to  divest  herself  of  her  warm  jacket,  and 
placed  her  in  a  snug  corner  of  the  old-fashioned 
couch. 

"You  will  be  all  right  directly,"  he  said,  as  he 
sat  down  beside  her.  "The  wind  was  too  strong, 


524  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

and  I  was  a  little  sudden;  wasn't  I,  Mattie?"  And 
now  the  color  began  to  come  into  Mattie's  face. 

Sir  Harry  found  plenty  to  tell  her  as  Mrs.  Sparsit 
brewed  the  tea  and  prepared  the  hot  buttered  cakes. 

Mattie  shed  tears  of  pure  happiness  when  she 
heard  from  his  own  lips  how  good  and  unselfish  and 
amiable  he  thought  her,  and  how  he  had  liked  her 
from  the  first  in  a  sort  of  way — "not  quite  the  right 
way,  you  know,"  explained  Sir  Harry,  candidly; 
"but  every  one  was  so  hard  on  you,  and  you  bore  it 
so  well,  and  were  such  a  good  little  woman,  that  I 
quite  longed  to  stand  your  friend;  and  we  were 
friends — were  we  not,  Mattie?  And  then  somehow 
it  came  to  me  what  a  nice  little  wife  you  would 
make;  and  so — "  but  here  Mattie  timidly  inter- 
rupted him: 

44 But  Grace — I  thought  you  liked  Grace  best!" 

Sir  Harry  laughed  outright  at  this;  but  he  had 
the  grace  to  look  ashamed  of  himself: 

44 So  I  did  like  her  very  much ;  but  I  was  only  try- 
ing you,  Mattie.  I  was  not  sure  how  much  you  liked 
me ;  but  you  seemed  such  a  miserable  little  Cinderella 
among  them  all  that  I  could  hardly  keep  it  up.  If 
they  sntib  you  now  they  will  have  to  answer  to  me. ' ' 
And  at  this  moment  Mrs,  Sparsit  entered  with  the 
tea-tray. 

Dinner  was  nearly  over  at  the  vicarage  when 
Mattie's  step  was  heard  in  the  hall.  Archie,  who 
was  the  soul  of  punctuality,  frowned  a  little  when 
the  sound  reached  his  ear. 

"This  is  too  bad  of  Mattie,"  he  said,  rather  fret- 
fully. "She  has  no  right  to  put  us  to  such  incon- 
venience. I  suppose  we  must  have  the  fish  up 
again?" 

"MissDrummond  desires  that  you  will  go  on  with 
your  dinner,  sir,"  observed  the  maid,  entering  at 
that  moment.  "  She  has  had  a  late  tea,  and  will  not 
require  anything  more." 

44 Very  strange!"  fumed  Archie;  but  he  was  a 
little  pacified  by  the  message.  But  Grace  slightly 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  5<J& 

elevated  her  eyebrows  with  an  expression  of  sur- 
prise.    Such  independence  was  new  in  Mattie. 

The  brother  and  sister  had  adjourned  to  the 
drawing-room,  and  Archie  was  about  to  ring  for  his 
coffee  before  Mattie  made  her  appearance. 

Grace  uttered  a  little  exclamation  when  she  saw 
her  sister : 

44  My  dear  Mattie,  we  have  no  visitors  coming  in 
this  evening!  Why  have  you  put  on  your  best 
gown?  You  extravagant  child!"  for  Mattie  had 
come  into  the  room  rustling  in  her  green  silk,  and 
her  little  dark  face  glowing  from  the  wind.  "She 
looked  almost  pretty,'1  as  Grace  said  afterward;  but 
at  her  sister's  quizzical  observation  Mattie  blushed 
and  seemed  confused. 

4 'It  is  no  use  saying  it,"  she  began.  "Sir  Harry 
is  coming  in  by  and  by.  And,  oh,  Archie!  he  told 
me  to  say  it,  but  1  don't  know  how  to  do  it."  And 
then,  to  Archie's  intense  surprise  —  for  she  had 
never  done  such  a  thing  in  her  life — she  suddenly 
threw  her  arms  round  his  neck.  "Oh,  Archie!  he 
says  you  are  never  to  scold  me  again — any  of  you," 
she  sobbed,  "because  I  belong  to  him  now.  And 
he — Sir  Harry,  I  mean — is  so  good  to  me,  and  I  am 
so  happy.  And  won't  you  wish  me  joy,  both  of 
you?  And  what— what  will  mother  say?"  finished 
Mattie,  as  though  this  were  the  climax  of  every- 
thing. 

"Good  heavens,  Mattie!"  gasped  Archie;  but  he 
did  not  shake  her  off:  on  the  contrary,  he  kissed 
her  very  kindly.  MDo  you  mean  you  are  going  to 
marry  Sir  Harry  Challoner?" 

"He  means  to  marry  me,"  returned  Mattie,  smil- 
ing in  spite  of  her  tears;  and  then  Grace  came  for- 
ward and  took  her  in  her  arms. 

"I  am  so  glad,   dear  Mattie,"   she  whispered, 

soothingly.     "Of  course  we  none  of  us  expected  it, 

and  we  are  all  very  much  surprised.     Oh,  dear! 

how  happy  mother  will  be!" 

•***!  tell  you  what,"  exclaimed  Archie,  in  great 


526  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

excitement,  ctl  will  take  you  down  myself  to  Low- 
der  Street,  and  see  what  she  says.  They  will  all  be 
out  of  their  senses  with  joy;  and,  upon  my  word, 
Mattie,  I  never  was  so  pleased  about  anything  in 
my  life.  He  is  a  right  down  good  fellow,  1  am  sure 
of  that ;  and  you  are  not  such  a  bad  little  thing 
yourself,  Mattie.  There!" 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

MATTIE  IN  HER  NEW  CHARACTER. 

The  family  at  Lowder  Street  were  all  gathered 
together  when  the  travelers  made  their  appearance. 
There  was  a  general  shout  of  delight  when  Archie's 
face  peered  in  at  them  from  the  dusky  hall  over 
Mattie 's  shoulder.  Mrs.  Drummond's  thin  face 
flushed  with  the  unexpected  pleasure. 

44 Oh,  Archie!  my  dear  boy,  I  never  thought  you 
would  surprise  us  in  this  way!"  she  said,  throwing 
down  her  work  with  tremulous  hands.  She  kissed 
Mattie  affectionately,  but  that  dark  glow  of  tender- 
ness in  her  eyes  was  for  Archie,  In  spite  of  her 
ordinary  undemonstrativeness,  she  seldom  spoke  to 
him  without  that  involuntary  softening  of  her 
voice.  However  much  she  loved  her  other  children, 
her  maternal  passion  was  reserved  for  her  first-born 
son. 

44  How  naughty  of  you  to  steal  a  march  on  us  in 
this  manner!"  she  said,  playfully.  *4 We  have  only 
prepared  a  meat-tea  for  Mattie,  because  I  knew  she 
would  not  mind ;  but  if  you  had  telegraphed  I  would 
have  had  dinner  ready  for  you,  Archie. " 

"Stuff!  nonsense!  why  need  he  have  telegraphed? 
I  suppose  what  is  good  enough  for  Mattie  and  the 
rest  of  us  is  good  enough  for  Archie!" 

Mr.  Drummond  spoke  testily  as  he  put  down  the 
paper.  These  hints  about  the  late  dinners  always 
nettled  him.  His  renunciation  of  them  years  ago 
had  been  a  heavy  pie^e  of  self-denial;  for  ha  was  a 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  52? 

man  rather  fond  of  creature  comforts;  he  had  done 
it  for  his  children's  sake;  but  it  was  more  than 
flesh  and  blood  could  bear  that  this  renounced 
luxury  should  be  served  for  his  son's  benefit.  Was 
he  not  as  good  as  Archie,  though  he  had  been  to  a 
University  and  become  a  fellow  of  his  college? 

"Father  is  quite  right,"  returned  Archie,  cheer- 
fully. "I  would  not  telegraph,  becatise  I  wanted 
to  surprise  you;  and  I  knew  you  were  such  a  good 
manager,  mother,  that  you  would  have  plenty  of 
aired  sheets  ready  for  my  bed.  Of  course  what  is 
good  enough  for  Mattie  is  right  for  me.  As  we  are 
both  as  hungry  as  hunters,  we  shall  do  justice  to 
anything  you  have  prepared." 

"There  is  only  some  cold  meat  and  some  ham  and 
eggs/'  observed  Mrs.  Drummond,  a  little  plain- 
tively. She  did  not  dare  anger  her  husband  further 
by  proposing  even  a  chop,  for  she  knew  how  touchy 
he  was  about  Archie's  fastidiousness:  but  if  she 
could  have  had  her  own  way  she  would  have  killed 
the  fatted  calf  for  this  dearest  son.  Nothing  was 
too  good  for  him  in  her  eyes;  and  yet  for  the  sake 
of  tranquillity  she  dared  not  even  hazard  the  ques- 
tion of  a  chop. 

"Cold  meat — that  is  just  what  I  should  like,"  re- 
plied Archie,  with  excellent  sang-froid.  He 
detested  that  stock  dish  of  the  Lowder  Street 
larder,  ham  and  eggs.  The  eggs  were  dubious,  he 
considered — not  actually  new-laid,  but  a  little  sug- 
gestive of  lime.  "But,  there!  you  must  not  give 
me  all  your  attention,  mother,"  he  continued.  "I 
have  brought  Mattie  home,  you  see,  and  you  have 
never  told  her  even  how  she  looks." 

"She  looks  very  well,"  replied  Mrs.  Drummond. 
In  spite  of  her  anxiety  about  Archie,  she  had  been 
looking  at  her  daughter  more  than  once  with  puz- 
zled eyes.  There  was  something  different  about 
her,  she  thought.  It  was  hardly  like  Mattie  to 
come  in  so  quietly  among  them  all  and  take  her 
place  beside  her  father.  Mattie  seldom  did  any- 


528  NOT  UKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

thing  without  a  fuss;  it  was  her  ordinary  way  to 
stand  among  them  chattering  as  fast  as  her  tongue 
would  go,  until  some  one  reminded  her  that  it  was 
time  for  her  to  take  off  her  hat  and  jacket,  or  she 
would  be  late  for  tea.  But  to-night  Mattie  had 
hardly  opened  her  lips,  except  to  answer  her  father's 
questions  about  the  journey.  She  had  kissed  her 
sisters  very  quietly,  and  had  asked  after  Isabel,  and 
had  then  proposed  of  her  own  accord  to  go  upstairs. 

4  *  Clara,  go  up  with  your  sister.  No,  not  Laura; 
you  will  all  get  chattering,  and  then  we  shall  be 
kept  waiting.  Isabel  is  upstairs,  Archie:  she  has 
come  ir  to  sit  with  us  this  evening,  as  Ellis  has  to 
go  to  a  business  dinner.  He  will  call  for  her  on  his 
way. ' ' 

"I  am  very  glad  she  is  here,"  returned  Archie, 
4tfor  I  have  to  go  back  by  the  early  train  to-morrow. 
Ah,  there  she  is.  Well,  how  are  you,  Belle?'*  greet- 
ing her  affectionately  as  she  came  up  to  him  rather 
shyly.  Archie  could  hardly  help  smiling  at  the  con- 
trast between  Isabel's  brilliant  evening  toilet  and 
his  other  sister's  stuff  dress.  It  was  a  little  trying 
to  his  gravity  to  see  her  putting  on  such  pretty  little 
airs  of  matronly  dignity.  Mrs.  Ellis  Burton  was  an 
important  person  now;  that  was  sufficiently  obvi- 
ous; the  plump  little  figure  was  most  lavishly 
adorned.  But  the  round,  childish  face  was  certainly 
very  pretty;  and  as  every  other  sentence  brought 
in  " Ellis,"  and  as  Ellis's  opinion  appeared  always 
right  in  her  eyes,  Archie  deduced  that  his  sister  was 
satisfied  with  her  choice. 

"Oh,  dear,  Mattie!  how  droll  it  is  to  see  you  home 
again!"  exclaimed  Susie,  who  was  noted  for  mak- 
ing awkward  speeches.  "And  how  funny  you  look 
beside  Isabel  I" 

'  **We  are  very  glad  to  have  her  back,"  returned 
Mrs.  Drummond,  in  her  repressive  tones.  She  was 
just  refilling  her  teapot  from  the  urn,  but  she  found 
opportunity  to  shake  her  head  at  Susie.  "  People 
look  smart  ia  their  tsraveKng-dress; 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  629 

but  I  think  she  looks  very  nice.  Had  you  not  a 
commoner  gown,  my  dear?  That  looks  almost  too 
good  for  the  purpose;"  for  Mrs.  Drummond's  sense 
of  economy  was  a  little  shocked  by  perceiving  that 
Mattie's  gown  was  a  new  one. 

44 It  is  very  well  made,"  observed  Isabel,  crit- 
ically. "I  am  so  glad,  Mattie,  that  you  have  given 
up  that  hideous  plaid;  it  never  suited  you." 

44 If  I  had  been  you,  I  would  have  traveled  in  it," 
persisted  Mrs.  Drummond,  who  never  could  re- 
member that  Mattie  was  over  thirty,  and  might 
possibly  have  opinions  of  her  own. 

Archie  listened  to  all  this  with  great  amusement. 

44 Don't  you  think  it  is  about  time  I  started  a 
pleasanter  subject,  Mattie?*'  he  asked,  laughing. 
44  Have  you  finished  your  tea,  my  dear?  for  I  do 
not  want  to  spoil  your  appetite;  but  time  is  getting 
on,  and — "  here  he  glanced  at  the  clock. 

Every  one  stared  at  this,  for  Archie  had  never 
spoken  in  exactly  that  way  to  Mattie  before ;  and, 
as  he  did  so,  Mattie's  cheeks  were  burning.  But 
what  was  their  surprise  when  Archie  suddenly  rose 
from  his  seat  and  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  Mattie's 
shoulder ! 

"She  is  too  shy  to  tell  you  herself;  I  have  come 
all  thess  miles  to  do  it  for  her.  Isabel,  you  need 
not  look  so  consequential.  Ellis  is  a  good  fellow,  I 
dare  say,  but  our  little  Mattie  has  done  better  than 
even  you.  Mother,  you  have  achieved  a  success 
in  one  of  your  seven  daughters:  let  me  introduce  to 
you  the  future  Lady  Challoner!"  And  then,  still 
keeping  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  he  looked 
blandly  round  on  them  all. 

44  Well,  I  am  sure!"  from  Isabel,  half -pouting ; 
but  no  one  else  spoke  except  Mr.  Drummond: 
"What  does  this  mean,  Archie?  Can't  you  speak 
for  yourself,  my  girl?  Is  this  a  joke?  Does  he 
mean  something  amusing?"  asked  the  father;  but 
his  lip  quivered  a  little :  if  it  should  be  true — if  it 
were  no  joflse! 


530  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

" It  is  just  as  Archie  says!"  replied  Mattie,  tim- 
idly, not  daring  to  raise  her  eyes.  "Sir  Harry 
asked  me  to  marry  him,  and  I  said  yes,  because — 
because  he  was  always  so  good  to  me."  And  here 
Mattie  laughed  a  little  hysterically.  "And  I  did 
not  think  you  would  object,  father." 

"Me  object!"  replied  Mr.  Drummond,  oblivious 
of  grammar  just  then.  "Why,  my  little  Mattie, 
what  news  is  this?  Come  here  and  kiss  me,  my  girl 
I  am  proud  of  you;  I  am  delighted  to  think  a 
daughter  of  mine  is  going  to  make  such  a  splendid 
match.  Why  don't  you  speak  to  her,  my  dear?" 
addressing  his  wife,  with  some  excitement.  "Bless 
my  soul! — Lady  Challoner;  my  plain  little  Mattie 
Lady  Challoner!  Is  it  possible?  Why,  you  were 
telling  us,  Archie,  what  a  Croesus  this  Sir  Harry 
was,  and  how  he  had  just  bought  quite  a  fine  place 
for  himself." 

"Mattie,  come  here."  Her  children  could  hardly 
recognize  their  mother's  voice,  it  was  so  broken, 
and  the  tears  were  running  down  her  cheeks, 
though  not  one  of  them  remembered  seeing  her  cry 
before.  Mattie  never  felt  her  triumph  greater, 
never  understood  the  magnificence  of  her  own  suc- 
cess, until  she  saw  those  tears,  and  felt  the  presence 
of  her  mother's  arms  round  her.  Never  since  the 
child  Mattie  had  had  to  make  way  for  the  new-born 
brother,  and  had  toddled  away  with  the  never-for- 
gotten words,  "Mammy's  arms  are  full;  no  room 
for  Mattie  now/'  had  she  laid  her  head  upon  that 
mother's  shoulder  to  indulge  in  the  good  cry  that 
was  needed  to  relieve  her.  Isabel  looked  almost 
affronted  as  she  twirled  her  diamond  rings  round 
her  plump  fingers.  When  she  and  Ellis  had  been 
engaged,  her  mother  had  not  made  all  this  fuss. 
And  Mattie  was  such  an  old  thing;  and  it  was  so 
ridiculous;  and  her  father  seemed  on  the  verge  of 
crying  too.  "But,  then,"  as  Susie  said  afterward, 
"Belle  did  not  like  her  consequence  to  be  set  aside; 
and  she  and  Ellis  were  just  nobodies  at  all. " 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  531 

No  one  enjoyed  the  scene  so  much  as  Archie:  that 
was  how  his  mother  ought  to  be  with  her  girls. 
Nevertheless,  he  interrupted  them  ruthlessly: 

"Don't  make  your  eyes  too  red,  Mattie:  remem- 
ber who  will  be  in  by  and  by."  And  as  she  started 
up  at  this  and  began  to  smooth  her  rumpled  hair, 
he  explained  to  them  generally  that  they  had  not 
traveled  alone ;  Sir  Harry  had  accompanied  them 
to  Leeds,  and  was  at  present  dining,  he  believed, 
at  the  Star  Hotel,  where  he  had  bespoken  a  room. 
"He  thought  it  best  to  make  himself  known  person- 
ally to  you;  and,  as  Mattie  raised  no  objection,  he 
announced  his  intention  of  calling  this  evening — " 
but  before  Archie  could  finish  his  sentence  or  the 
awe-struck  domestic  announce  him  properly,  Sir 
Harry  himselt  was  among  them  all,  shaking  hands 
with  everybody,  down  to  Dottie. 

And  really,  fora  shy  man,  he  did  his  part  very 
well;  he  seemed  to  take  his  welcome  for  granted, 
and  beamed  on  them  all  most  genially. 

"I  suppose  the  parson  has  already  introduced 
me,"  he  said,  when  Mr.  Drummond  senior  held  out 
his  hand.  "What  a  lot  of  you  there  are!' 'he  con- 
tinued, as  he  reached  Dottie,  who,  dreadfully  fright- 
ened at  his  size,  tried  to  hide  behind  Susie.  Dottie 
compared  him  in  her  own  mind  to  one  of  their 
favorite  giants.  "He  was  so  dreadfully  like  Fee-fo- 
fum  in  'Jack  the  Giant-Killer/  "  she  pouted,  when 
Mattie  afterward  took  her  to  task:  "when  he  kissed 
me  I  thought  he  was  going  to  eat  me  up." 

Mattie's  dark  little  face  lighted  up  with  shy  hap- 
piness when  she  saw  him  sit  down  beside  her 
mother  and  talk  to  her  in  his  frank,  pleasant  way. 
In  her  eyes  he  was  nothing  less  than  an  angel  of 
light.  True,  the  room  had  never  looked  so  small 
and  shabby  as  it  looked  to-night,  but  what  did  that 
matter  to  Mattie?  the  poor  little  Cinderella  in  the 
brown  gown  had  found  her  prince.  By  and  by  the 
pumpkin  coach  would  fetch  her  to  a  grand  house, 
she  would  have  jewels  and  fine  clothes — everythi 


532  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

that  the  heart  of  woman  could  desire;  but  it  may 
be  doubted  if  such  thoughts  ever  crossed  Mattie's 
mind.  That  he  had  chosen  her,  this  was  the  miracle: 
that  she  was  never  to  be  scolded  and  laughed  at 
and  teased;  that  he  had  stooped  to  her,  this  noble, 
great-hearted  man,  to  raise  her  from  her  humble- 
ness; that  he  could  care  for  her,  in  spite  of  her 
plainness  and  her  many  faults.  No  wonder  if  such 
happiness  almost  beautified  Mattie,  as  she  sat  a 
little  apart,  surrounded  by  her  young  sisters. 

Mrs.  Drummond's  stern  face  glowed  with  pleas- 
ure when  Sir  Harry  in  a  few  simple  words  spoke  to 
her  of  his  pride  in  winning  her  daughter.  Could 
it  be  her  homely,  old-fashioned  little  Mattie  of 
whom  he  was  speaking,  whose  unselfishness  and 
goodness  he  praised  so  highly?  "I  have  never 
known  a  more  beautiful  nature:  she  does  not  seem 
to  me  to  have  an  unkind  thought  of  any  one. 
All  my  cousins  love  her.  If  you  will  trust  her  to 
me,  I  think  I  can  promise,  as  far  as  a  man  can, 
that  her  life  shall  be  a  happy  one."  No  wonder  if 
the  mother's  e}res  filled  with  joyous  tears  at  such 
words  as  these. 

"Mattie,  dear,"  said  Sir  Harry  to  her  the  next 
day,  when  they  found  themselves  alone — a  rather 
difficult  thing  to  achieve  in  the  crowded  household, 
but  Mrs.  Drummond  had  just  left  the  room — "I 
have  been  talking  to  your  mother.  She  is  a  sensible 
woman,  and  she  thinks  in  six  weeks  everything  can 
be  ready.  What  do  you  say?" 

44 If  mother  thinks  so,  I  suppose  she  is  right," 
returned  Mattie,  very  much  confused  by  this  sud- 
den appeal  to  her  opinion.  Sir  Harry  had  already 
importuned  for  a  speedy  marriage,  and  she  h^ad  in 
much  trepidation  referred  him  to  her  mother,  feel- 
ing herself  unequal  to  the  task  of  answering  him. 

Yes,  your  mother  is  a  sensible  woman,"  contin- 
ued Sir  Harry,  taking  no  notice  of  her  confusion. 
"She  knows  that  a  great  house  full  of  servants  is 
more  then  a  aaan  can  manage  alone;  and  so,  as  I 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  533 

told  her  that  Gilsbank  was  ready,  and  its  master 
waiting,  she  was  quite  of  my  opinion  that  there 
should  be  no  delay.  You  see,  Mattie,"  in  a  tone 
of  great  gentleness,  "though  I  am  very  fond  of  you, 
I  can  not  help  feeling  stifled  in  a  small  house  full 
of  people.  There  is  no  getting  you  to  myself,  or 
being  comfortable;  and  a  man  of  my  size  feels  out 
of  place  among  a  lot  of  girls.  So,  if  you  are  will- 
ing, as  of  course  you  are,"  very  coaxingly,  "and  I 
am  willing,  we  may  as  well  get  the  thing  over.  It 
takes  a  good  deal  out  of  a  fellow  to  go  through  this 
sort  of  thing  properly,  and  I  don't  fancy  I  hit  it  off 
well:  so  we  will  say  this  day  six  weeks.  And  to- 
morrow you  will  be  a  good  little  woman,  and  let  me 
go  back  to  my  comfortable  quarters  at  Hadleigh, 
for  one  breathes  only  smoke  here ;  and  how  you 
have  borne  it  all  these  years  is  a  mystery  to  me. " 

So  Mattie  let  him  go  cheerfully.  She  had  never 
been  selfish  in  her  life,  and  of  course  she  spoke  no 
word  to  dissuade  him:  but,  though  she  had  but  few 
letters  from  him,  and  those  of  the  briefest  possible 
kind — for  Sir  Harry  was  not  fond  of  penmanship— 
those  six  weeks  were  far  from  being  unhappy, 
How  could  they  be,  when  they  were  all  so  good  to 
her,  Mattie  thought?  when  her  opinion  was  de- 
ferred to  even  by  her  mother,  and  when  her  brothers 
and  sisters  treated  her  with  such  respect  and  affec- 
tion? 

Mattie  had  no  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  or  she  would 
have  laughed  at  the  change  in  Clycte's  tone,  or  at 
the  way  Fred  boxed  Dottie's  ears  for  speaking 
rudely  to  Mattie.  In  their  eyes  the  future  Lady 
Challoner  was  a  person  of  the  utmost  importance. 
The  boys  vied  with  each  other  in  waiting  on  her; 
the  girls  were  always  ready  with  their  little  ser- 
vices. Mattie  felt  herself  almost  overwhelmed 
sometimes. 

"Oh,  mother,  ask  them  not  to  do  it!"  she  said  one 
day,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "I  am  only  Mattie;  I 
am  not  different;  I  never  shall  be  different.  I  shall 


394  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

want  to  wait  on  you  all  my  life— on  you  and  all  of 
them!'1 

"It  is  for  them  to  wait  on  you  more!"  returned 
her  mother,  gravely.  "I  am  afraid  they  have  not 
always  been  good  to  you,  and  they  want  to  make 
up  for  it." 

But  not  all  the  attentions  she  received  could 
move  Mattie  from  her  own  humble  estimate  of  her- 
self; and  yet  in  some  ways,  if  she  could  have  seen 
herself,  she  would  have  owned  there  was  a  differ- 
ence. Mattie  no  longer  fussed  and  fidgeted:  always 
sweet-natured,  she  grew  placid  in  her  new  happi- 
ness. 

"I  consider  myself  a  fortunate  fellow,  for  I  have 
the  dearest  little  wife  in  the  world,"  Sir  Harry 
said  to  her  a  few  days  after  they  were  married,  when 
Mattie  had,  as  usual,  said  something  disparaging 
of  herself.  " Never  mind  what  you  think,  so  long 
as  I  am  satisfied ;  and  it  is  very  rude  of  you  to  be 
always  finding  fault  with  my  choice — ay,  Lady 
ChaUoner!" 


CHAPTER  L. 

PHILLIS'S    FAVORITE    MONTH. 

Archie  had  been  persuaded  to  remain  until  the 
following  evening,  and  to  take  the  night  mail  up 
to  London.  "You  know  you  always  sleep  so 
soundly  in  a  railway  carriage,"  his  mother  had  said, 
with  her  eyes  full  of  pleading. 

"Perhaps  so;  but  all  the  same  it  is  dreary  work 
to  be  shunted  on  to  a  platform  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  and  to  have  to  find  your  way  across  London 
to  catch  a  Sussex  train/' 

But,  in  spite  of  his  grumbling,  he  had  remained. 
For  once  it  was  difficult  to  tear  himself  away  from 
that  happy  family  party. 

But  all  through  that  night  he  scarcely  closed  his 
eyes,  but  sat  staring  at  the  swinging  lamp  and  his 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  585 

drowsy  fellow-passengers,  or  out  into  the  blank 
wall  of  darkness,  too  wide  awake  and  full  of  thought 
to  lose  himself  in  his  usual  placid  slumbers.  The 
fortunes  of  the  Drummond  family  seemed  rising  a 
little,  he  thought,  with  pleasure.  How  alert  and 
full  of  energy  his  father  had  seemed  when  he  had 
parted  from  him  at  the  station !  he  had  lost  that 
subdued,  despondent  look  that  had  grown  on  him 
of  late.  Even  his  shoulders  were  a  little  less 
bowed,  as  though  the  burden  did  not  press  quite  so 
heavily. 

41  All  this  makes  a  great  difference  tome,  Archie," 
he  had  said,  as  they  had  walked  to  and  fro  on  the 
platform.  "Two  such  wealthy  sons-in-law  ought 
to  satisfy  any  father's  ambition.  I  can  hardly 
believe  yet  that  my  little  Mattie—  whom  her  sisters 
always  called  'the  old  maid' — should  have  secured 
such  a  prize.  If  it  had  been  Grace,  now.  one  need 
not  have  wondered  so  much." 

"You  may  leave  Grace  out  of  your  reckoning,  ' 
returned  Archie,  smiling  assent  to  this,  "and  con- 
sider you  have  three  out  of  your  seven  daughters 
provided  for;  for  Grace  will  always  be  my  care. 
Whatever  happens  in  the  future,  I  think  I  can 
promise  as  much  as  that." 

"Ay,  ay!  I  remember  when  she  was  a  little  thing 
she  always  called  herself  Archie's  wife.  Well,  well, 
the  mother  must  bring  on  Clara  now:  it  would  be  a 
shame  to  separate  you  two.  Look,  there  is  your 
train,  my  boy!  Jump  in,  and  God  bless  you!  You 
will  come  down  to  the  wedding,  of  course,  and 
bring  Grace." 

"Archie's  wife."  It  was  these  two  words  that 
were  keeping  him  so  wide  awake  in  the  rushing 
darkness.  A  dusky  flush  mounted  to  the  young 
man's  forehead  as  he  pondered  over  them. 

He  knew  himself  better  now.  Only  a  few  weeks, 
scarcely  more  than  a  fortnight,  had  passed  since 
Grace  had  given  him  that  hint;  but  each  day  since 
then  had  done  the  work  of  years.  Caught  at  the 


536  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

rebound,  indeed,  and  that  so  securely  and  strongly 
that  the  man's  heart  could  never  waver  from  its  fixed 
purpose  again. 

Now  it  was  that  he  wondered  at  his  blindness; 
that  he  began  to  question  with  a  perfect  anguish  of 
doubt  whether  he  should  be  too  late;  whether  his 
vacillation  and  that  useless  dream  of  his  would  hin- 
der the  fulfillment  of  what  was  now  his  dearest 
hope. 

Would  be  ever  bring  her  to  believe  that  he  had 
never  really  loved  before — not,  at  least,  as  he 
could  love  now?  Would  he  ever  dare  to  tell  her  so, 
when  she  had  known  and  understood  that  first  stray 
fancy  of  his  for  Nan's  sweet  face? 

Now,  as  day  after  day  he  visited  the  cottage  and 
talked  apart  with  her  mother,  his  eyes  would  fol- 
low Phillis  wistfully.  Once  the  girl  had  looked  up 
from  her  work  and  caught  that  long,  watchful 
glance;  and  then  she  had  grown  suddenly  very  pale, 
and  a  pained  expression  crossed  her  face,  as  though 
she  had  been  troubled. 

Since  that  night  when  the  young  vicar  had  stood 
bareheaded  on  the  snowy  steps,  and  had  told  Phillis 
laughingly  that  one  day  she  would  find  it  out  for 
herself  that  all  men  were  masterful,  and  she  had 
run  down  the  steps  flashing  back  that  disdainful 
look  at  him,  he  had  felt  there  was  a  change  in  her 
manner  to  him. 

They  had  been  such  good  friends  of  late ;  it  had 
become  a  habit  with  him  to  turn  to  Phillis  when  he 
wanted  sympathy.  A  silent,  scarcely  perceptible 
understanding  had  seemed  to  draw  them  together, 
but  in  a  moment,  at  a  word,  a  mere  light  jest  of  his 
that  meant  nothing,  the  girl  had  become  all  at  once 
reserved,  frozen  up,  impenetrable  even  to  friend- 
ship. 

In  vain  he  strove  to  win  her  back  to  her  old  merry 
talk.  Her  frank  recklessness  of  speech  seemed  over 
for  the  present.  In  his  presence  she  was  almost 
always  silent — not  with  any  awkwardness  of  embar- 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  537 

rassment,  but  with  a  certain  maidenly  reserve  of 
bearing,  as  though  she  had  marked  out  a  particular 
line  of  conduct  for  herself. 

When  Grace  was  in  the  room  things  were  better  5 
Phillis  could  not  be  otherwise  than  affectionate  to 
her  chosen  friend.  And  when  they  were  alone 
together,  all  Phillis'  bright  playfulness  seemed  to 
return;  but  nothing  would  induce  her  to  cross  the 
threshold  of  the  vicarage. 

The  evening  after  his  return  from  Leeds,  Archie, 
as  usual,  dropped  in  at  the  Friary;  but  this  time  he 
brought  Grace  with  him.  They  were  all  gathered 
in  the  work-room,  which  had  now  become  their 
favorite  resort.  -On  some  pretext  or  other,  the  lamp 
had  not  been  brought  in;  but  they  were  all  sitting 
round  the  fire,  chatting  in  an  idle,  desultory  way. 

Phiilis  was  half  hidden  behind  her  mother's  chair; 
perhaps  this  was  the  reason  why  her  voice  had  its 
old  merry  chord.  She  had  welcomed  Archie  rather 
gravely — hardly  turning  her  face  to  him  as  she 
spoke;  but  as  soon  as  she  was  in  her  corner  again, 
she  took  up  the  thread  of  their  talk  in  her  usual 
frank  way.  But  it  was  Grace  that  she  addressed. 

"Poor  dear  Harry!  We  have  all  been  laughing  a 
little  at  the  notion  of  Alcides  being  in  love.  Some- 
how, it  seems  so  droll  that  Mattie  should  turn  out 
his  Deianeira;  but,  after  all,  I  think  he  lias  shown 
very  good  sense  in  his  choice.  Mattie  will  wear 
well." 

44  You  seem  to  agree  with  the  'Vicar  of  Wakefield, ' 
Miss  Challoner,"  observed  Archie,  rather  amused 
at  this  temperate  praise.  "Did  not  that  excellent 
man  choose  his  wife  for  the  same  reason  that  she 
chose  her  wedding-dress,  with  a  view  of  durability?" 

"Oh,  there  is  a  vast  amount  of  wisdom  in  all 
that/*  returned  Phillis,  with  mock  solemnity,  for 
she  did  not  mind  what  nonsense  she  talked  in  the 
darkness.  "If  life  had  nothing  but  fair-weather 
days,  it  might  be  excusable  for  a  man  to  choose  his 
wife  for  mere  beauty;  but  when  one  thinks  of  fogs 


538  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

and  east  winds,  and  smoky  chimneys,  atid  all  such 
minor  evils,  they  may  need  something  a  little  more 
sustaining  than  a  pink  complexion.  At  least," 
catching  herself  up,  and  hurrying  on  as  though  the 
real  meaning  of  her  words  only  just  occurred  to  her, 
"though  Mattie  may  not  be  beautiful  outwardly,  she 
is  just  the  right  sort  of  person  for  a  regular  east- 
windy  day.  Not  even  a  smoky  chimney  and  a  fog 
together  will  put  her  out  of  temper." 

"I  will  recollect  your  advice  when  the  time 
comes,"  replied  Archie,  rather  audaciously,  at  this, 
as  he  laughed  and  stroked  his  beard. 

It  pleased  him  to  see  the  old  fun  brimming  over 
again,  fresh  and  sparkling:  but,  as  he  answered  her 
in  the  same  vein  of  pleasantry,  she  colored  up  in 
her  dark  corner  and  shrunk  back  into  herself,  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  evening  he  could  hardly  win  a 
smile  from  her. 

"My  dear,  I  think  Mr.  Drummond  comes  very 
often,"  Mrs.  Challoner  said  to  her  eldest  daughter 
that  night.  "He  is  very  gentlemanly  and  a  most 
excellent  young  man ;  but  1  begin  to  be  afraid  what 
these  visits  mean."  But  Nan  only  laughed  at  this. 

"Poor  mother!"  she  said,  stroking  her  face. 
"Don't  you  wish  you  had  us  all  safe  at  Glen  Cottage 
again?  There  are  so  few  young  men  at  Oldfield. " 

"I  cannot  bear  young  men,"  was  the  somewhat 
irritable  answer.  "What  is  the  use  of  having  chil- 
dren, when  just  when  they  grow  up  to  be  a  comfort 
to  you,  every  one  tries  to  deprive  you  of  them? 
Dick  has  robbed  me  of  you" — and  huere  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner grew  tearful — "and  Dulce  is  always  with  the 
Middletons,  and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  Captain 
Middleton  is  not  beginning  to  admire  her." 

"Neither  am  I%"  observed  Nan,  a  little  gravely; 
for,  though  they  seldom  talked  of  such  things  among 
themselves,  "son  Hammond's"  attentions  were  de- 
cidedly conspicuous,  and  Dulce  was  looking  as  shy 
and  pretty  as  possible. 

No ;  she  could  not  give  her  mother  any  comfort 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  539 

there,  for  the  solemn-faced  young  officer  was  clearly 
bent  on  mischief.  Indeed,  both  father  and  son  were 
making  much  of  the  little  girl.  But  as  regarded  Mr. 
Drummond  there  could  be  no  question  of  his  inten- 
tions. The  growing  earnestness,  the  long,  wistful 
looks  were  not  lost  on  Nan,  who  knew  all  such 
signs  by  experience.  It  was  easy  to  understand  the 
young  vicar;  it  was  Phillis  who  baffled  her. 

They  had  never  had  any  secrets  between  them. 
From  their  very  childhood  Nan  had  shared  Philiis's 
every  thought.  But  once  or  twice  when  she  had 
tried  to  approach  the  subject  in  the  gentlest  man- 
ner, Phillis  had  started  away  like  a  restive  colt,  and 
had  answered  her  almost  with  sharpness. 

"Nonsense,  Nannie!  What  is  it  to  me  if  Mr. 
Drummond  comes  a  do^en  times  a  day?"  arching 
her  long  neck  in  the  proudest  way,  but  her  throat 
contracting  a  little  over  the  uttered  falsehood ;  for 
she  knew,  none  better,  what  these  visits  were  to 
her.  "Do  you  think  I  should  take  the  trouble  to 
investigate  his  motives?  Don't  you  know,  Nan," 
in  her  sweet,  whimsical  voice,  "that  the  masculine 
mind  loves  to  conjugate  the  verb  'to  amuse?'  Mr. 
Drummond  is  evidently  bored  by  his  own  company; 
but  there!  the  vagaries  of  men  are  innumerable. 
One  might  as  well  question  the  ebbing  tide  as  in- 
quire of  these  young  divinities  the  reason  of  all  their 
eccentric  emotions.  He  comes  because  we  amuse 
him,  and  we  like  to  see  him  because  he  amuses  us, 
and  when  he  bores  us  we  can  tell  him  so,  which  is 
better  than  Canute  and  the  waves,  after  all."  And, 
of  course,  after  this,  Nan  was  compelled  to  drop  the 
subject. 

But  she  watched  Phillis  anxiously,  for  she  saw 
that  the  girl  was  restless  and  ill  at  ease.  The 
thoughtful  gray  eyes  had  a  shadow  in  them.  The 
bright  spirits  were  quenched,  and  only  kindled  by 
a  great  effort;  and,  as  the  time  for  their  leaving  the 
Friary  grew  closer  day  by  day,  until  the  last  week 


540  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

approached,  she  flagged  more,  and  the  shadow  grew 
deeper. 

"If  he  would  only  speak  and  end  all  this  sus- 
pense," thought  Nan,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  real 
state  of  things,  and  imagined  that  Mr.  Drummond 
had  cared  for  Phillis  from  the  first. 

They  had  already  commenced  their  packing.  Sir 
Harry  was  back  in  his  hotel,  solacing  himself  with 
his  cousins'  company,  and  writing  brief  letters  to 
his  homely  little  bride-elect,  when  one  fine  after- 
noon he  met  them  and  Grace  just  starting  for  the 
shore. 

This  was  their  programme  on  most  afternoons, 
and  of  course  they  had  not  gone  far  before  Captain 
Middleton  and  his  father  and  sister  joined  them, 
and  a  little  later  on,  just  as  they  were  entering  the 
town,  they  overtook  Mr.  Drummond. 

Phillis  nodded  to  him  in  a  friendly  manner,  and 
then  walked  on  with  Grace,  taking  no  further 
notice;  but  when  they  were  on  the  shore,  admiring 
the  fine  sweet  sunset  effect,  Grace  quietly  dropped 
her  arm  and  slipped  away  to  join  the  others. 
Phillis  stood  motionless ;  her  eyes  were  riveted  on 
the  grand  expanse  of  sky  and  ocean.  "It  is  so  life- 
like," she  said  at  last,  not  seeing  who  stood  beside 
her,  while  all  the  others  were  walking  on  in  groups 
of  twos  and  threes,  Dulce  close  to  the  colonel,  as 
usual.  "Do  you  see  those  little  boats,  Grace?  one 
is  sailing  so  smoothly  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  other 
scarcely  stirring  in  the  shadow — brightness  to  some, 
you  see,  and  shade  to  others;  and  beyond,  that  clear 
line  of  light,  like  the  promise  of  eternity/1 

"Don't  you  think  it  lies  within  most  people's 
power  to  made  their  own  lives  happier?"  returned 
Archie  so  quietly  to  this  that  she  scarcely  started. 
"The  sunshine  and  shade  are  more  evenly  balanced 
than  we  know.  To  be  sure,  there  are  some  lives 
like  that  day  that  is  neither  clear  nor  dark — gray, 
monotonous  lives  with  few  breaks  and  pleasures  in 
them-  But  perhaps  even  that  question  may  be 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  541 

happily  solved  when  one  looks  out  a  little  further  to 
the  light  beyond." 

"Yes,  if  one  does  not  grow  tired  of  waiting  for 
the  answer,"  she  said,  a  little  dreamily.  "There  is 
so  much  that  cannot  be  clear  here. "  And  then  she 
roused  with  a  little  difficulty  from  her  abstraction 
and  looked  around  her.  The  others  had  all  gone 
on;  they  were  standing  alone  in  the  shingly  beach, 
just  above  a  little  strip  of  yellow  sand — only  they 
two.  Was  it  for  this  reason  that  her  eyes  grew 
wide  and  troubled,  and  she  moved  away  rather 
hurriedly?  But  he  still  kept  close  to  her,  talking 
quietly  as  he  did  so. 

"Do  you  remember  this  place?"  he  said;  "it  re- 
minds me  of  a  picture  I  once  saw,  I  think  it  was 
4Atalanta's  Race/  only  there  was  no  Paris.  It 
was  just  such  a  scene  as  this;  there  was  the  dark 
breakwater,  and  the  long  line  of  surf  breaking  on 
the  shore,  and  the  sun  was  shining  on  the  water; 
and  there  was  a  girl  running  with  her  head  erect, 
and  she  scarcely  seemed  to  touch  the  ground,  and 
she  stopped  just  here, ' '  resting  his  hand  on  the  black, 
shiny  timber. 

"Do  not,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice,  **do  not 
recall  that  day;  it  stings  me  even  now  to  remember 
it."  And  as  the  words  "Bravo,  Atalanta!"  recurred 
to  her  memory,  the  hot  blush  of  shame  mounted  to 
her  face. 

"I  have  no  need  to  recall  it,"  he  returned,  still 
more  quietly,  for  her  discomposure  was  great,  "for 
I  have  never  forgotten  it.  Yes,  this  is  the  place, 
not  where  I  first  saw  you,  but  where  I  first  began 
to  know  you.  Phillis,  that  knowledge  is  becoming 
everything  to  me  now." 

"Do  not,"  she  said  again,  but  she  could  hardly 
bring  out  the  words.  But  how  wonderful  it  was  to 
hear  her  name  pronounced  like  that!  "The  others 
have  gone  on;  we  must  join  them." 

"May  I  not  tell  you  what  I  think  about  you  first?" 
he  asked,  very  gently.  "Not  now — not  yet,"  she 


542  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

almost  whispered;  and  now  he  saw  that  she  was 
very  pale,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  "I  could 
not  bear  it  yet.0  And  then,  as  she  moved  further 
away  from  him,  he  could  see  how  great  was  her 
agitation. 

It  was  a  proof  of  his  love  and  earnestness  that  he 
suffered  the  girl  to  leave  him  in  this  way,  that  he 
did  not  again  rejoin  her  until  they  were  close  to 
the  others.  In  spite  of  his  impatience  and  his  many 
faults,  he  was  generous  enough  to  understand  her 
without  another  word.  She  had  not  repelled  him; 
she  had  not  silenced  him  entirely;  she  had  not  list- 
ened to  him  and  then  answered  him  with  scorn.  On 
the  contrary,  her  manner  had  been  soft  and  sub- 
dued, more  winning  than  he  had  ever  know  it;  and 
yet  she  had  refused  to  hearken  to  his  suit.  "Not 
now — not  yet,"  she  had  said,  and  he  could  see  that 
her  lip  quivered,  and  her  beautiful  eyes  were  full 
of  tears.  It  was  too  soon,  that  was  what  she  meant ; 
too  soon  for  him  to  speak,  and  for  her  to  listen. 
She  owed  it  to  her  own  dignity  that  his  affection 
should  be  put  to  greater  proof  than  that.  She  must 
not  be  so  lightly  won  ;  she  must  not  stoop  down  from 
her  maidenly  pride  and  nobleness  at  his  first  words 
because  she  had  grown  to  care  for  him.  "It  must 
not  be  so,  however  much  the  denial  may  cost  me," 
Phillis  had  said  to  herself.  But  as  she  joined  the 
others,  and  came  to  Nan's  side,  she  could  scarcely 
steady  her  voice  or  raise  her  eyes,  for  fear  their 
Bhy  consciousness  would  betray  her.  44At  last," 
and  "at  last!" — that  was  the  refrain  that  was  ringing 
so  joyously  in  her  heart.  Well,  and  one  day  he 
should  tell  her  what  he  would. 

She  thought  she  had  silenced  him  entirely,  but 
she  forgot  that  men  were  masterful  and  had  cun- 
ning ways  of  their  own  to  compass  their  ends. 
Archie  had  recovered  his  courage;  he  had  still  a 
word  to  say,  and  he  meant  to  say  it;  and  just  before 
the  close  of  the  walk,  as  they  were  in  the  darkest 
part  of  the  Braidwood  Road,  just  where  the  trees 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  &3 

meet  overhead,    before  one  reaches  the  vicarage 

Philhs  found  him  again  at  her  side. 
"When  may  I  hope  that  you  will  listen?"  he  said 
I  am  not  a  patient  man;  you  must  remember  that 

and  not  make  it  too  hard  for  me.      I  should  wish  to 

know  how  soon  I  may  come. " 

"  Spring  is  very  beautiful  in  the  country  "  she 

answered,  almost  too  confused  by  this  unexpected 

address   to  know  what  she  was  saying      "I  think 

May  is  my  favorite  month,  when  the  hawthorns  are 

"Thank  you,  I  will  come  in  May."     Then  Phillis 
woke,  up  to  the  perception  of  what  she  had  said 

Oh,  no,  I  did  not  mean  that,"  she  began,  inco- 
herently; but  this  time  it  was  Archie  who  moved 
away,  with  a  smile  on  his  face  and  a  certain  vivid 
brightness  in  his  eyes,  and  her  stammered  words 
were  lost  in  the  darkness. 

The  whole  week  was  much  occupied  by  paying 
/arewell  visits.  On  the  last  afternoon  Phillis  went 
down  to  the  White  House  to  say  good-bye  It  was 
one  of  Magdalene's  bad  days;  but  the  unquiet  hour 
had  passed,  and  left  her,  as  usual,  weak  and  sub- 
Her  husband  was  sitting  beside  her-  as 
Phillis  entered  he  rose  with  a  smile  on  his  lips 

That  is  right,  Miss  Challoner!"  he  said,  heartily' 

Magdalene  always  looks  better  the  moment  she 
hears  your  voice.  Barby  is  unfortunately  out  but 
I  can  leave  her  happily  with  you." 
u  "J8??  rnot  Sood?"  exclaimed  his  wife,  as  soon  as 
he  had  left  them.  "He  has  been  sitting  with  me 
all  the  afternoon,  my  poor  Herbert,  trying  to  curb 
his  restlessness,  because  he  knows  how  much  worse 
L  am  without  him.  Am  I  not  a  trying  wife  to  him? 
and  yet  he  says  he  could  not  do  without  me  There 
:  has  passed;  let  us  talk  of  something  else  And 
•o  you  are  going  to  leave  us?"  drawing  the  fresh  face 
town  to  hers  that  she  might  kiss  it  again." 

!!mf8'  to-morr°w!"  trying  to  stifle  a  sigh, 
ihere  are  some  of  us  that  will  not  know  what  to 


544  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

do  without  you.  If  1  am  not  very  much  mistaken, 
there  is  one  person  who — "  but  here  the  girl  laid  her 
hand  hurriedly  on  her  lips.  "What!  am  I  not  to  say 
that?  Well,  I  will  try  to  be  good.  But  all  the  same 
this  is  not  good-bye.  Tell  your  mother  from  me 
that  she  will  not  have  her  girls  for  long.  Captain 
Middleton  has  lost  his  heart,  and  is  bent  on  mak- 
ing that  pretty  little  sister  of  yours  lose  hers  too;and 
as  for  you,  Phillis — "  but  here  Phillis  stooped  and 
silenced  her  this  time  by  a  kiss. 

44  Ah,  well!"  continued  Magdalene,  after  a 
moment's  silence,  as  she  looked  tenderly  into  the 
fair  face  before  her;  44so  you  have  finished  your 
little  bit  of  play-work,  and  are  going  back  into  your 
young  ladyhood  again?" 

4 'It  was  not  play- work!"  returned  Phillis,  indig- 
nantly, 4<you  say  that  to  provoke  me.  Do  you 
know,"  she  went  on,  earnestly,  44that  if  we  should 
have  had  to  work  all  our  lives  as  dressmakers,  Nan 
and  I  would  have  done  it,  and  never  given  in?  We 
were  making  quite  a  fine  business  of  it.  We  had 
more  orders  than  we  could  execute ;  and  you  call 
that  play?  Confess,  now,  that  you  repent  of  that 
phrase." 

44 Oh,  I  was  only  teasing  you,"  returned  Magda- 
lene, smiling.  44I  know  how  brave  you  were,  and 
how  terribly  in  earnest.  Yes,  Phillis,  you  are 
right;  nothing  would  have  daunted  you;  you  would 
have  worked  without  complaint  all  your  life  long, 
but  for  that  red-haired  Alcides  of  yours." 

44 Dear  Harry!  how  much  we  owe  to  him!"  ex- 
claimed  Phillis. 

44  No,  dear,  you  will  owe  your  happiness  to  your- 
self— the  happiness,"  as  the  girl  looked  at  her  in 
surprise,  44that  is  coming  to  you  and  Dulce.  It  was 
because  you  were  not  like  other  girls — because  you 
were  brave,  self-reliant  gentlewomen,  afraid  of 
nothing  but  dishonor;  not  fearful  of  small  indigni- 
ties, or  of  other  people's  opinions,  but  just  taking 
up  the  work  that  lay  to  your  hands,  and  going 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  545 

through  with  it — that  you  have  won  his  heart;  and, 
seeing  this,  how  could  he  help  loving  you  as  he 
does?"  But  to  this  Phillis  made  no  answer. 

The  next  day  was  rather  trying  to  them  all. 
Phillis'  cheerfulness  was  a  little  forced,  and  for 
some  time  after  they  had  left  the  Friary — with 
Grace  and  Archie  waving  their  farewells  from  the 
road — she  was  very  silent. 

But  no  sooner  had  they  crossed  the  threshold  of 
Glen  Cottage  than  their  girlhood  asserted  itself. 
The  sight  of  the  bright,  snug  rooms,  with  their  new 
furniture,  the  conservatory,  with  its  floral  treasures, 
and  Sir  Harry's  cheery  welcome,  as  he  stood  in  the 
porch  with  Mrs.  Mayne,  was  too  much  even  for 
Phillis' s  equanimity.  In  a  few  minutes  their  laugh- 
ing faces  were  peering  out  of  every  window  and 
into  every  cupboard. 

"Oh,  the  dear,  beautiful  home!  Isn't  it  lovely  of 
Harry  to  bring  us  back!"  cried  Phillis,  oblivious  of 
everything  at  that  moment  but  her  mother's  satis- 
fied face. 

In  a  few  days  they  had  settled  down  into  their 
old  life.  It  was  too  early  for  tennis  while  the  snow- 
drops and  crocuses  were  peeping  out  of  the  garden 
borders.  But  in  the  afternoon  friends  dropped  in 
in  the  old  way, and  gathered  round  the  Challoner  tea- 
table  ;  and  very  soon — for  Easter  fell  early  that  year 
—Dick  showed  himself  among  them,  and  then,  in- 
deed, Nan's  cup  of  happiness  was  full. 

But  as  April  passed  on  Phillis  began  to  grow  a 
little  silent  again,  and  it  became  a  habit  with  her  to 
coax  Laddie  to  take  long  walks  with  her,  when  Nan 
and  Dulce  were  otherwise  engaged.  The  exercise 
seemed  to  quiet  her  restlessness,  and  the  spring 
sights  and  sounds,  the  budding  hedge-rows,  and  the 
twittering  of  the  birds  as  they  built  their  nests,  and 
the  fresh,  leafy  green,  unsoiled  by  summer  heat  and 
dust,  seemed  to  refresh  her  flagging  spirits. 

It  was  the  first  of  May  when  one  afternoon  she 
called  to  Laddie,  who  was  lying  drowsily  in  the 

*5  Girls. 


541  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

sunny  £>orch.  Nan,  who  was  busily  engaged  in 
training  the  creeper  round  the  pillars  of  the 
veranda,  looked  up  in  a  little  surprise. 

"Are  you  going  out  again,  Phil?  And  neither 
Dulce  nor  I  can  come  with  you.  Mrs.  Mayne  has 
some  friends  coming  to  five  o'clock  tea,  and  she 
wants  us  to  go  over  for  an  hour.  It  is  so  dull  for 
you,  dear,  always  to  walk  alone." 

*kOh,  no,  I  shall  not  be  dull,  Nannie,"  returned 
Phillis,  with  an  unsteady  smile,  for  her  spirits  were 
a  little  fluctuating  that  afternoon.  <4I  am  restless, 
and  want  a  good  walk ;  so  I  shall  just  go  to  Sandy 
Lane,  and  be  back  in  time  to  make  tea  for  mother.'* 
And  then  she  waved  her  hand  and  whistled  to  Lad- 
die as  she  unlatched  the  little  gate.  It  was  a  long 
walk.  But,  as  usual,  the  quiet  and  the  sweet  air 
refreshed  her,  and  by  the  time  she  reached  Sandy 
Lane  her  eyes  were  brilliant  with  exercise,  and  a 
pretty  pink  tinge  of  color  was  in  her  cheeks.  "It  is 
May-day — the  first  of  May.  I  wonder  how  soon  he 
will  come, ' '  she  thought,  as  she  leaned  on  the  little 
gate  where  poor  Dick  had  leaned  that  day. 

There  were  footsteps  approaching,  but  they  made 
no  sound  over  the  sandy  ruts.  A  tall  man  with  a 
fair  beard  and  a  clerical  felt  hat  was  walking  quickly 
up  the  road  that  leads  from  Oldfield ;  and  as  he 
walked  his  eyes  were  scanning  the  path  before  him, 
as  though  he  were  looking  for  some  one.  At  the 
sight  of  the  girl  leaning  against  the  gate  his  face 
brightened,  and  he  slackened  his  steps  a  little,  that 
he  might  not  startle  her.  She  was  looking  out 
across  the  country  with  a  f "ir-off,  dreamy  expres- 
sion, and  did  not  turn  her  head,  as  he  approached. 
It  was  Laddie  who  saw  him  first,  and  jumped  up 
with  a  joyous  bark  to  welcome  him,  and  then  she 
looked  round,  and  for  a  moment  her  eyes  grew  wide 
and  misty,  for  she  thought  it  was  a  continuation  of 
her  dream. 

"Laddie  saw  me  first,"  he  said,  stepping  up 
quietly  to  her  side— for  he  still  feared  to  startle  her 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.  547 

—and  his  voice  was  very  gentle.  "Phillis,  you  must 
not  look  surprised!  Surely  you  expected  me?  It 
is  the  first  of  May!" 

44 Oh,  I  knew  that,"  she  said,  and  then  she  turned 
away  from  him.  But  he  had  not  dropped  her  hand, 
but  was  holding  it  very  quietly  and  firmly.  "But  I 
could  not  tell  the  day;  and—" 

41  Did  you  think  1  should  wait  an  hour  beyond  the 
time  you  fixed?"  he  answered,  very  calmly.  "May 
is  your  favorite  month ;  and  what  could  be  more 
beautiful  than  May-day  for  the  purpose  I  have  in 
hand?  Phillis,  you  will  not  go  back  from  your 
promise  now?  You  said  you  would  listen  to  me  in 
May." 

There  was  no  answer  to  this;  but,  as  Archie 
looked  in  her  face  he  read  no  repulse  there.  And 
so,  in  that  quiet  lane,  with  Laddie  lying  at  their 
feet,  he  told  all  he  had  to  tell. 

"Are  you  sure  you  can  trust  me  now,  Phillis?" 
he  asked,  rather  wistfully,  when  he  had  finished. 
"You  know  what  I  am,  dear — a  man  with  many 
faults." 

"Yes,  now  and  forever,"  she  answered,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation.  "I  am  not  afraid — I  never 
should  have  been  afraid  to  trust  you.  I  have  faults 
of  my  own,  so  why  should  I  wish  you  to  be  per- 
fect? I  care  for  you  as  you  are,  you  will  believe 
that?"  for  there  was  almost  a  sad  humility  in  his 
face  as  he  pleaded  with  her  that  went  to  her  heart. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  believe  what  you  tell  me.  You  are 
truth  itself,  my  darling— the  bravest  and  truest 
wom^ir  I  have  ever  met.  Yo-u  do  not  know  how 
"bappy  you  bave  made  me,  or  how  different  rny  life 
will  be  when  I  have  you  by  tny  side.  Phillis,  do  you 
know  how  glad  Grace  will  be  about  this?" 

"Will  she?"  returned  Phillis,  shyly.  They  were 
walking  homeward  now,  hand  in  hand,  toward  the 
sunset — so,  at  least,  it  seemed  to  the  girl.  No  one 
was  in  sight,  only  the  quiet  country  round  them 
bathed  in  the  evening  light  and  they  two  alone. 


548  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS.: 

" Archie!"  she  exclaimed,  suddenly,  and  her 
beautiful  eyes  grew  wistful  all  at  once,  "you  will 
not  let  this  make  any  difference  to  Grace?  She 
loves  you  so;  and  you  are  all  she  has  at  present. 
You  must  never  let  me  stand  between  you  two.  1 
am  not  so  selfish  as  that. " 

44  You  could  not  be  selfish  if  you  tried,  dearest. 
How  I  wish  Grace  could  have  heard  you!  No;  you 
are  right.  We  must  not  let  her  suffer  from  our  hap- 
piness. But,  Phillis,  you  know  who  must  come  first 
now."  And  then,  as  she  smiled  in  full  understand- 
ing, he  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  held  it 
there.  His  promised  wife — Archie's  wife!  Ah, 
the  Drummond  star  was  rising  now  in  earnest!  His 
life  lay  before  him,  like  the  road  they  were  now 
entering,  white  and  untrodden  and  bathed  in  sun- 
light. What  if  some  cloud  should  come  and  some 
shadows  fall,  if  they  might  tread  it  together  to  the 
end?  And  so,  growing  silent  with  happiness,  they 
walked  home  through  the  sunset,  till  the  spring: 
dusk  and  the  village  lights  saw  them  standing 
together  on  the  threshold  of  Glen  Cottage,  and  the 
dear  faces  and  loving  voices  of  home  closed  round 
them  and  bade  them  welcome. 

THE  END. 


We  are  the  Sole  Publishers  of  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox'a  Books 

The  Poetical  and  Prose  Works  of 

ELLA    WHEELER    WILCOX 

Mrs.  Wilcox 's  writings  have  been  the  inspiration  of  many  young 
men  and  women.  Her  hopeful,  practical,  masterful  views  of  Iif3 
give  the  reader  new  courage  in  the  very  reading  and  are  a  wholesome 
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line  it  lies— flow  from  this  talented  woman's  pen. 

MAURINE 

Is  a  love  story  told  in  exquisite  verse.  "An  ideal  poem  about 
as  true  and  lovable  a  woman  as  ever  poet  created."  It  has 
repeatedly  been  compared  with  Owen  Meredith's  Lucile.  In 
point  of  human  interest  it  excels  that  noted  story. 

"Maunne  "  is  issued  in  an  edition  de  luxe,  where  the  more 
important  incidents  of  the  story  are  portrayed  by  means  of 
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POEMS  OF  POWER. 

New  and  revised  edition.  This  beautiful  volume  contains 
more  than  one  hundred  new  poems,  displaying  this  popular  poet's 
well-known  taste,  cultivation,  and  originality.  The  author 
says:  The  final  word  in  the  title  of  the  volume  refers  to  the 
Divine  power  in  every  human  being,  the  recognition  of  which 
13  the  secret  of  all  success  and  happiness.  It  is  this  idea  which 
many  of  the  verses  endeavor  to  inculcate  and  to  illustrate. 

'  The  lines  of  Mrs.  Wilcox  show  both  sweetness  and 
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strong  grip  upon  .he  affections  of  thousands  all  over  the 
world.  Her  productions  are  read  to-day  just  as  eagerly  as 
they  were  when  her  fame  was  new,  no  other  divinity  having 
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THREE  WOMEN,    A  STORY  IN  VERSE. 

41  THREE  WOMEN  is  the  best  thing  I  have  ever  done,"— Ella 
Wheeler  Wilcox. 

This  marvelous  dramatic  poem  will  compel  instant  praise 
because  it  touches  every  note  in  the  scale  of  human  emotion. 
It  is  intensely  interesting,  and  will  be  read  with  sincere  relish 
and  admiration. 

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POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

Many  of  the  best  poetic  creations  of  Ella  Wheeler  WHcox 
are  to  be  found  in  this  charming  collection.  Besides  many 
admirable  specimens  of  romantic  verse,  there  are  several 
poems  of  rare  beauty,  dealing  with  every-day  topics.  Every 
line  of  these  poems  pulsates  with  life  and  throbs  with  emotion. 

"Mrs.  Wilcox  is  an  artist  with  a  touch  that  reminds  one 
of  Byron's  impassionate  strains."— Paris  Register. 

"Everything  that  she  writes  has  the  mark  of  her  uniqiie, 
powerful  personality  impressed  upon  it,  and  this  volume  will 
not  be  a  disappointment  to  those  acquainted  with  her."— New 
York  Press. 

"The  book  is  replete  with  good  things  and,  though  a  book 
of  fewer  than  two  hundred  pages,  it  is  worth  whole  reams  of 
the  sentimentalism  flourishing  under  the  misnomer  of  liter- 
ature."— Western  Bookseller. 

"Mrs.  Wilcox  takes  her  raptures  with  a  full  heart,  revel 
ing  in  blisses  and  draining  sorrows  deeply;  not  morbidly  but 
hopefully.  Skeptic  as  she  is  of  all  formal  creeds,  she  does 
not  become  cynical  or  pessimistic,  but  makes  a  glad  religion 
out  of  evolution  and  human  fellowship."— New  York  Daily 
News. 

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POEMS  OF  PflSSION. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  is  known  as  the  greatest  living  poet 
of  passion.  To  her  the  human  heart  seems  to  have  revealed 
its  mysteries,  for  she  has  the  power  to  picture  love  in  all  its 
moods  and  variations  as  no  other  has  done  since  Byron. 

"Only  a  woman  of  genius  could  produce  such  a  remark- 
able work."— Illustrated  London  News. 

Beside  many  others,  there  are  some  fifty  poems  which 
treat  entirely  of  that  emotion  which  has  been  denominated 
"the  grand  passion"— love.  Among  the  most  popular  poems 
in  the  book  are  Delilah,  Ad  Finem,  Conversion,  and  Communism. 
These  vibrant  poems  have  attained  a  reputation  that  is  above 
and  beyond  criticism. 

"Her  name  is  a  household  word.  Her  great  power  lies  in 
depicting  human  emotions;  and  in  handling  that  grandest  of 
all  passions— love,  she  wields  the  pen  of  a  master.  —Saturday 
Record. 

Many  thousands  of  the  book  have  been  issued  in  the  plain 
edition.  The  author's  numerous  admirers  called  for  a  de  luxe 
impression,  and  in  the  New  Illustrated  Edition  the  demand 
is  met  by  a 

B£AUT/FUU  Y  PRODUCED  AND  CHAUfMINQL  Y  EMBELLISHED  EDITION 

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EVERY-DAY  THOUGHTS-In  Prose 
and  Verse. 

H'-r  latest,  largest  and  greatest  prose  work.  This  brilliant 
ff?r£  consists  of  a  serieus  of  forceful,  logical  and  fascinating 
talks"  to  every  member  of  the  household,  in  which  the 
author  fearlessly,  but  with  delicacy,  discusses  every-day  sub- 
jects, and  directs  attention  to  those  evils  which  menace  the 
peace  and  safety  of  the  home.  "Everydau  Thoughts"  is  not  a 
mere  book  of  advice,  neither  does  it  attempt  to  preach  but  it 
contains  more  good  counsel  and  wholesome  moral  lessons 
than  are  to  be  found  in  the  average  sermon. 
•*  uThu  *e  thoughts,  lofty  and  uplifting,  are  stated  with  viril- 
ity both  in  prose  and  verse.  The  noble  sentiments  expressed 
in  this  volume  will  widen  "- 


se  an    verse.         e  noe  s 
in  this  volume  will  widen  the  circle  of  her 
ter  limes. 

"Few  people  are  so  good  as  not  to  be  made  better  by  a  stu- 
dious perusal  of  this  useful  and  Interesting  book,  which  is    in 
briet,  a  short  and  vlflorous  dissertation  on  rooral  conduct  and  the 
springs  of  right  living     Mrs.  Wilcox's  latest  publication  is  a 
worthy  addition  to  the  best  works  of  moral  philosophy  and  her 
treatise  deserves  wide  readlng/'-AVz*  York  Daily  News 
Presentation  Edition,  12mo.  gray  cloth,  gold  top  ......  $1  50 

De  Luxe  Edition,  white  vellum,  gold  top  ....................  2.00 

KINGDOM  OF  LOVE.  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

A  magnificent  collect  loo  of  poems  suitable  for  recitations  and  read- 
ings. true  to  the  very  best  there  Is  In  human  nature. 

In  the  preface  to  this  collection,  the  author  says:  "I  am 
constantly  urged  by  readers  and  impersonators  to  furnish 
them  with  verses  for  recitation.  In  response  to  this  ever- 
increasing  demand,  I  have  selected  for  this  volume  the  poems 
which  seem  suitable  for  such  a  purpose.  In  making  my  col- 
lection of  them  I  have  been  obliged  to  use,  not  those  which 
are  among  my  best  efforts  in  a  literary  or  artistic  sense,  but 
i  °nal  "  contam  the  best  dramatic  possibilities  for  profes- 

*;Her  fame  has  reached  all  parts  of  the  world,  and  her  pop- 

klel?*m*      gr°W  W       C         succeeding  year.  "—  American 


Presentation  Edition,  dark  red  cloth...  ...$1  00 

De  Luxe  Edition,  white  vellum,  gold  top  ..................  ..  1.60 


AN  AMBITIOUS  MAN—  Prose. 


^realistic  novel  of  the  modern  school  of  fiction.  Although 
plot  borders  on  the  sensational,  the  motive  of  the  story  is 
ood  one  I 


ona,      e  motve  o    te  story  is 
It  teaches  that  hereditary  tendencies  can  be 


e  eaces  tat     ereitary  tendencies  can  be 

If  £0+me:  J-  ^  one  can  conquer  passion  and  impulse  by  the 
' 


.iiuiiiei  cviaence  01  ner  wiae  range  ot  thought.  "In  *An 
Ambitious  Man  the  central  figure  is  a  woman,  who  becomes 
cna.^e.n?9  through  suffering  and  purified  through  sin." 

Vivid  realism  stands  forth  from  every  page  of  this  fasci- 
nating and  interesting  book."— Every  Day.                   " 
Presentation  Edition,  green  silk  cloth..^.......,. .....$1.00 


AN  ERRING  WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

There  is  always  a  fascination  in  Mrs.  Wilcox's  >erse,  but 
In  these  beautiful  examples  of  her  genius  she  shows  a  wonder- 
ful knowledge  of  the  human  heart. 

"Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  has  impressed  many  thousands  of 
people  with  the  extreme  beauty  of  her  philosophy  and  the 
exceeding  usefulness  of  her  point  of  view."— Boston  Globe. 

"Mrs.  Wilcox  stands  at  the  head  of  feminine  writers,  and 
her  verses  and  essays  are  more  widely  copied  and  read  than 
those  of  4any  other  American  literary  woman."— New  York 
World.  'Power  and  pathos  characterize  this  magnificent 
poem.  A  deep  understanding  of  life  and  an  intense  sympathy 
are  beautifully  expressed." — Chicago  Tribune. 

Presentation  Edition,  12mo,  light  brown  cloth $1.00 

De  Luxe  Edition,  white  vellum,  gold  top 1.60 

MEN,  WOMEN  AND  EMOTIONS. 

A  skilful  analysis  of  social  habits,  customs  and  fellies.  A 
common-sense  view  of  life  from  its  varied  standpoints.... full 
of  sage  advice. 

"These  essays  tend  to  meet  difficulties  that  arise  in  almost 

every  life Full  of  sound  and  helpful  admpnition,  and  is 

sure  to  assist  in  smoothing  the  rough  ways  of  life  wherever  it 
be  read  and  heeded."— Pittsbure  Times. 

12mo,  heavy  enameled  paper $0.50 

Presentation  Edition,  dark  brown  cloth 1.00 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  LAND  OF  NOD. 

\  collection  of  poems,  songs,  stories,  and  allegories  dealing 
with  child  life.  The  work  is  profusely  illustrated  with  dainty 
line  engravings  and  photographs  from  life. 

"The  delight  of  the  nursery;  the  foremost  baby's  book  in 
the  world."— -jV.  O.  Picayune. 
Quarto,  sage  green  cloth $1.00 

AROUND  THE  YEAR  WITH 
ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX 

A  Birthday  Book  Compiled  from  the 
Poetical  and  Prose  Writings  of 
Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 

The  many  admirers  of  Mrs.  Wilcox  will  welcome  this  vol- 
ume with  genuine  enthusiasm.  It  epitomizes  her  inspiring 
optimistic  philosophy  with  an  apposite  quotation  for  every 
day  in  the  circling  year. 

The  book  is  a  small  Quarto  in  size,  beautifully  printed  on 
excellent  paper  with  red-line  borders,  and  handsomely  bound 
.n  cloth,  with  exquisite  half-tone  illustrations  prefacing  each 
month,  and  with  author's  portrait. 

Presentation  Edition,  olive  green  cloth $1.00 

De  Luxe  Edition,  white  vellum,  gold  top 1-55 

Autograph  Edition,  full  leather,  gold  top 2.0O 


W.  B.  CONKEY  COMPANY,  Hammond,  Ind. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


^APR'5§ffH 

REC'D  LD 

APR  1  3  1959 

JAN  1  9  2000 

LD  21A-50m-9,'58 
(6889slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YB  73177 


M300721 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


